


The King He Had Created

by flowerofnettles



Series: Seo Gaestlufe/The Soul's Love [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Court Sorcerer Merlin (Merlin), Emotional confessions, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I didn't give any warnings for violence because it's not too graphic, M/M, Other, Protective Arthur, Sick Merlin (Merlin), Worried Arthur, about who's protecting who in this relationship, but there is some violence in the beginning, canon AU, lots of misunderstandings, magic sickness, more pre-Merthur but it's definitely getting there, second in a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-01-24 04:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18564031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerofnettles/pseuds/flowerofnettles
Summary: Even though they’ve defeated Morgana, Merlin and Arthur are still under threat from her most loyal followers. When these rebel sorcerers kill eleven knights as a message of war, the king and his warlock go to try to make peace with them. But the leaders learned a lot of Old Religion spells from Morgana before she died, including how to summon a creature that will poison the magic of anyone it bites…and they have their victim carefully chosen. Merlin gets better, of course he does, but his closeness to death hits Arthur like a punch to the gut. When a visiting prince takes a special interest in Merlin, Arthur sees it as his chance to set things right in the only way he knows how--by sending Merlin away for his own safety.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all the people who left kudos and comments on the previous fic in this little series. I’m super excited about this one because it’s an idea I’ve had in my head for a VERY long time. It features a couple of OC’s from one of my original writing projects, a visiting king and prince, which I normally don’t do in fanfic but I really felt they fit in with the storyline better than any of the characters from the show. They’re just secondary characters that don’t even show up until Part 2, though, so I hope you’re okay with that and enjoy them!  
> Although it’s definitely hinted at, it’s not officially Merthur yet, so totally safe to read for all the non-Merthur people; the serious Merlin/Arthur stuff starts in the next story. This is the second in a series of four fics, so if you haven’t read The Fall of Camelot (rewrite), you might want to check that out first, but really there’s nothing super important you absolutely HAVE to know in order to understand this one.  
> I think that’s enough rambling for now. Hope you like it!

Merlin hissed in pain when the bubbling potion splattered over the rim of the bowl and singed his sleeve. He hastily set the bowl back down onto the table, but in his rush he knocked over a candle, which knocked over a book, which hit the floor and dislodged a ladder he’d haphazardly placed there the last week. The ladder began to tumble forwards, more books and bottles he’d set there starting to slide in impending doom before one of his hands instinctively went up and his eyes flashed gold, catching the ladder in mid-air. Carefully so as not to disturb the precarious balance of the objects resting on its slats, he used his magic to push the ladder back toward the wall. When it was nearly back in its proper place, the door to the physician’s chambers crashed open without warning and Arthur appeared, his whole body tense with controlled urgency.

Merlin’s eyes having cut to the door, he was not looking when the ladder finally hit its mark, which it did a little too roughly; he winced when he heard three bottles fall and shatter softly.

“I’m calling an emergency council meeting,” Arthur addressed him uncharacteristically without a greeting, not even noticing the broken glass or bubbling potion in his single-minded insistence. “There’s been an attack at one of the borders of Camelot that needs our immediate attention. Come now, Merlin.”

It had been a little over a year since he’d seen the king bearing such a solemn expression, since they’d won the Battle at Camlann and defeated Morgana once and for all. Thanks to Arthur’s wise and fair political alliances, the kingdom had been growing in wealth and happiness in the last months like never before in its history. What enemies Camelot might have had were few and disorderly, and none of them had dared to make themselves known for fear of the power and skill of the defenses of Camelot—including its increasing assembly of sorcerers. But there were a few enemies; there always would be, where there was good. And it seemed one of them had finally struck.

At the round table, he took his place at Arthur’s right just as Leon stood and spoke loudly, hushing the low murmurs of the men and women counsellors.

“We’ve been receiving reports for weeks,” he began, eyes hard with the seriousness of his report, “that a band of sorcerers have been attacking travelers in the northern lands. Ten days ago we sent out a dozen men to the area in order to capture them if need be. This morning, only one man returned.”

Merlin felt a rush of sorrow shoot through him; no matter how many times he heard of death, or even saw it himself, he would never stop sympathizing with the victims of it or their loved ones left behind. His pity was overcome only by his surprise at the brazenness of the killers, as were the other members of the council, it seemed, by the wave of murmurs that filled the air. He glanced to Arthur’s face and saw the same sadness reflected there, but with a mighty determination as well.

“Sir Gelor was left uninjured,” Leon continued, silencing the noise, “to serve as a messenger for these sorcerers.”

“And what was the message?” asked one of the elders loudly from across the table.

“According to Sir Gelor, they told him they were followers of the Lady Morgana. They escaped in the final battle and found refuge in the mountains. For the last year, they have been gathering people from the area and amassing a small army, and their message was one of warning. They said they will continue to attack all across the land until they reach the city, and that they will take it and the throne in the name of Morgana Pendragon.”

The whispers started again, and Merlin realized for the first time they would probably never truly be rid of the threat Morgana had placed upon them. Even in her absence, her hatred was spreading through the lives of others. He looked to Arthur, who was staring at the tabletop. The king felt his warlock’s gaze upon him and they shared a look of silent, heavy understanding.

All eyes had turned now to their leader, waiting expectantly for what he would command in recompense for the lives of his eleven murdered men and the injuries done to the helpless citizens of his land.

“Have twenty knights ready to ride by dawn,” he instructed Leon without hesitation, “and ensure that at least half of them have some knowledge of magic.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Let it be known,” the king added for all listening, “Camelot is a kingdom whose aim is peace and mercy even to our enemies, but we will not tolerate any more senseless cruelty in the name of my sister. This band of sorcerers are to be captured and tried for their crimes. I shall ride out tomorrow morning with the men and seek them out.”

Merlin knew the importance of Arthur’s going; anything to do with Morgana must be ended swiftly and strongly. Still, he felt his heart rate pick up, like his magic was warning him of what he already knew—anyone associated with Morgana automatically despised Arthur and would see him dead if they had the chance. Even within the walls of the citadel, Merlin was vigilant about guarding his friend’s life; out in the northern forests, where the old followers of Morgana were plenty and their magic tainted with darkness, he would have to watch even more closely and be prepared to stand between them and Arthur at any moment. After so many months of calm order, it was almost strange to feel that impulse of battle again, but it also almost felt comforting in its familiarity.

He and Arthur were both quiet as he helped the king pack his bag. (Arthur had an official manservant who had replaced Merlin when he’d been promoted to court sorcerer, but more often than not Merlin dismissed the boy and did the more personal work himself.) It was strange when Merlin thought about it. In one way, he and Arthur talked more now than they ever had before; the only good that had come from the death of Arthur’s queen and newborn son had been to bring the two of them even closer. And yet in another way they did not speak nearly as much as they once had; in moments like this, there was no need. They understood one another’s thoughts so well now they did not have to talk about the situation at hand to know how they would proceed. It was a striking change from how it used to be, when a distance had to be kept to maintain Merlin’s secret. Now there was no more need for secrets and sometimes he still couldn’t believe it.

When the packing was finished and Arthur had made a short list of things to be completed before they departed the next morning, the king placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and met his eyes.

“You must help me during this journey,” he said lowly. “I don’t know what we’ll face from these sorcerers, and I have no desire to put the lives of my men in any more danger than necessary. We must act with courage and wisdom.”

“And you’re saying I have courage and wisdom?” Merlin offered with a teasing smile to ease his friend’s mind.

“No,” the king answered back readily, humor shining in his eyes. “I’m saying I want you to stay out of the way of those of us who _do_.”

“As you command, your highness,” he added the last part with a little bow and a grin.

Arthur rolled his eyes, shaking his head and chuckling.

“Will you ever grow up, Merlin?”

“No, you like me too much this way.”

Arthur rolled his eyes again, but the effect was ruined by the smile he was only barely fighting.

“Right,” he drolled sardonically.

Merlin smirked, happy to see his friend smiling after such a solemn day, but then he turned serious once more.

“Don’t worry, Arthur,” he told him. “We have faced so much evil in the past and have always defeated it. This time will be no different, as long as we do it together.”

He would never have expected he could be so wrong.

\--------------------------------------------------

The sorcerers were easy enough to find; they had made little effort to conceal themselves from the local villagers, their power being great enough to keep away any that might have tried to stop them. The knights fanned around the campsite, moving silent and unseen through the trees. Arthur and Merlin entered the clearing without announcing themselves first, the king’s hand steadily at his sword and Merlin so close to him his elbow bumped against the gleaming armor with each step.

It wasn’t until after they denied Arthur’s offer of peace three times that Merlin realized they had been expecting them all along. A strange smell tickled his nose, and it took him only a heartbeat to recognize it.

He tried to warn Arthur, but it was too late. The incense-based spell that had put all he knights to sleep was already starting to affect them both, turning the edges of his vision black and making Arthur stumble slightly where he stood.

He did the only thing he could think to do, his magic leaping out of him almost before he realized he’d even cast a spell. The incense clouding up the open area burned away in a wave of energy, but in the turmoil of their attackers’ closing in Merlin and Arthur were separated.

Arthur backed up toward one edge of the clearing, sword drawn. Merlin saw one of the knights—now awakening quickly thanks to his banishment of the enchantment—leap up from the brush and cut down one of the men moving toward the king, as a second clashed blades with Arthur. That was all he saw, however, before three of them appeared before him, eyes glowing bright gold just before a tree tore itself down, narrowly missing him as he dove out of the way.

In the end, he found himself some short distance away from the rest of the fight with a small pile of unmoving enemies at his feet. The last of them—the woman leader, called Cruina, whose brother had been one of Morgana’s highest ranking soldiers and was now missing—sat on her knees in the dirt before him, held down by the weight of his magic on her shoulders. He did not move his hand, keeping her in her place as she shot him a murderous look.

“The throne of Camelot does not belong to Arthur Pendragon,” she spat out, each word like a fiery arrow aimed at him.

“Morgana is dead,” he said darkly. “The throne will never be hers. You have no reason to continue to follow her.”

“We have every reason,” she told him, rage flashing intensely in her burning blue eyes. “The kingdom Arthur controls is no friend to sorcery, no matter what he might say. We are still shunned, mistreated, and hated all across this land. He is still his father’s son, and we will destroy their influence forever and all of those who believe in him. We will rebuild this kingdom anew, in the way Morgana intended.”

“You will be stopped,” he answered.

He saw her eyes dart to look behind his shoulder, but her words registered too late.

“Not by you, Emrys.”

There was a hiss in his ear and a flash of pain at his throat, and his magic reacted like a terrified creature, roiling and scalding through his veins as he collapsed to his knees. A figure—the witch’s missing brother, Morgana’s soldier called Barric—stepped around him, holding a tiny snake in one hand whose strange colors were unlike any snake in Albion.

Old Religion magic, was the thought that came crashing through Merlin’s mind as his body began to burn cold—no, not his body, his magic, twisting and becoming disfigured under his skin like he never knew was possible, like his insides were being torn apart by his tortured power.

He could barely cry out when the man landed the first blow, a brutal kick to his stomach that sent his already-labored breath rushing out of him. His magic could do nothing; no matter what spells he tried to gasp out, it only continued to writhe in him in its own curse-born agony. He felt a bone snap in his arm, and then another in his chest as he was struck over and over again. Finally, the woman grasped a handful of his hair, yanking him up from the ground and then Barric, with a rock he chose from the ground, struck him over his eye. His world went instantly black and he knew nothing else.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Arthur watched as the last of the enemy sorcerers scattered through the trees in retreat but did not slide his sword back into its sheath until they were out of sight. He turned and saw most of his men were unharmed, with only a few cuts and bruises between them. Merlin had trained all with any talent the simplest self-defense spells, and it seemed coupled with the excellence of their training, they were proving invaluable. He couldn’t help but grin in relief as he caught his breath, but then he realized there was one important figure missing.

“Merlin?” he called out, expecting a dark head to pop out from over one of the tree roots.

“Sire!” it was Percival’s voice that answered him, full of fear that seemed contrary to their victory.

Over the knight’s broad shoulder, Leon and Gwaine were moving hastily into the clearing, carrying a limp body whose indigo cloak was terrifyingly familiar.

All traces of happiness gone, Arthur rushed to them and helped lower Merlin to the ground. His breath caught painfully in his chest when he pulled his hands back and found them smeared with the blood that was leaving patches of dark stains all over the old clothes. For a moment, he truly believed his friend to be dead, until he heard the harsh, uneven breaths and felt the fluttering heartbeat under his fingertips.

“What happened?” he found his voice to demand, eyes never leaving his friend’s pale, unresponsive face.

“He must have been taken by surprise,” Leon answered helplessly. “None of us saw it happen.”

From behind, a hand touched Arthur’s shoulder and a soft voice implored him.

“Allow me, sire.”

He moved back a bit to give room for Sir Tamir, whose mother had been a Druid healer and who he brought along for that very reason.

No one dared speak to the king for a long while, as Tamir called out for the men to fetch water and a list of herbs he needed. The young man worked diligently, as the knights sat and wrung their hands and Arthur paced endlessly by the fire someone had lit. At last, Tamir stood.

“I’ve done all I can, sire,” he said. “I am not a true healer, and while I have sustained his life for the time being, I cannot guarantee how long it will last. But I don’t understand something, my lord—when I called upon his magic to help, it would not respond. I cannot understand why, but if it will not heal him, his life is in great danger and we must get him back to Camelot as soon as possible or I fear he will die.”

Arthur did not waste a moment to respond; turning to the men, he announced without waiting to see whether they approved or not,

“We’ll leave for Camelot immediately. Be prepared for two days’ ride. Percival, Gwaine, help me.”

The two rushed forward and helped him lift Merlin from the ground, mindful of his still-numerous injuries. Merlin never stirred as they tied him as comfortably as they could to his horse and handed the reins to Arthur, who kicked his own horse to set the pace toward Camelot almost before the others had even mounted theirs.

\---------------------------------------------------------

By the time they reached the city two sunsets later, Merlin’s skin had gone from pale to grey and his breathing was barely more than rasping pants for air. He had not moved or spoken at all, and it had been all they could do just to pour some water down his throat when they had stopped briefly on the journey. He had gotten so cold that Arthur had ordered him moved from his own horse to Arthur’s, where he wrapped him in both their cloaks and held him close the last half-day just to keep him warm. With Merlin’s body pressed against his chest, he could feel strange shudders rippling through him like he was in some great unconscious pain.

The court physician since Gaius, a young sorcerer called Gilli, rushed past Arthur into Merlin’s bedchamber where they’d lain him. (1) When he insisted upon solitude and pushed them from the little room, Arthur—for the first time in two days—actually looked at his closest friends. Gwaine, Percival, Elyan, and Leon all watched him expectantly but none tried to encourage him to speak, for which he was grateful.

“Go,” he told them, his voice rough and too loud in his own ears. “Wash, eat, and get some rest. You’ve done well.”

“What about you?” Leon asked, none of them moving just yet.

“I’ll rest when I know something more. Now go.”

The four men looked to each other, until finally Gwaine spoke for them all.

“If it’s all the same, we’ll stay.”

In spite of his fears, Arthur could not help but feel warmth at their love both for him and for their sorcerer. He nodded and prayerful silence fell on the room. It was not very long before the click of the door signaled Gilli’s exit; he reclosed the door behind him firmly and allowed the physician’s bag to rest against his hip as he turned and took a steadying breath.

“How is he?” Arthur demanded, the dark look on the young man’s face casting a shadow over his hope.

“Your highness, I’m sorry—”

In just those two words, all the hearts in the room sank.

“—but I’m afraid I don’t know what more to do. I was able to heal all of Merlin’s injuries—the broken bones and cuts and bruises—but there is something wrong with his magic, sire. It seems to have been poisoned somehow; there was a bite mark on his throat with a strange coloration around it. Going by stories of Old Religion creatures, I believe this may be source of the poison. No matter what I do, his heart is slowing and his skin gets colder every moment. As he is now, I don’t know if he will survive the night. I am sorry, sire.”

Arthur could sense the despair of the men around him, but none compared with his own. He could feel the beginnings of helplessness creeping into his soul, as much as when Morgana had betrayed them, and when he’d come home from battle to find Guinevere had died, and when they’d entered that awful clearing to find his newborn son murdered by bandits. Perhaps this was even worse, he realized, because usually at these moments Merlin was there, just over his shoulder, a strong support in the midst of chaos. This time he stood alone and it was Merlin he might have to let go. That was something he had only ever truly considered once before, back when they barely knew one another and still Merlin had drunk a goblet full of poison for him. (2) Arthur had been willing to go against his father and spend a week in the dungeons of his own castle to save him, even knowing next to nothing about him yet. Now, he was willing to do anything.

“There must be something,” he said defiantly, “a cure, somewhere.”

“I will continue to search through Gaius’ old records and those in the library, my lord,” Gilli told him willingly, “but I do not know if I will find anything or how long it will take. For now, it’s up to Merlin.”

Behind him, the knights looked sorrowfully at one another. They all loved Merlin; they always had, even when he’d been nothing but a gangly serving boy who was good to everyone around him, and in the last few years their affection had only grown to allow for the powerful warlock who’d saved them all without their ever knowing. But even with their own pain, there was something more—the knowledge that to lose him would be a devastating blow not only to the safety and security of the kingdom, but straight at the heart of the king himself. Merlin’s death would change their whole world, and each of them knew it.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Arthur and the knights solemnly left Merlin’s chambers and went their separate ways. After Arthur was done bathing and redressing, mechanically with the help of his official manservant, it was mid-evening and the stars twinkled through the smoke from the town outside. He ordered the servant away and stood by the window of his chambers nearest the fireplace, watching the people gather in the square below. They were huddled together, dark figures distinguishable only as tiny pinpoints of light between flickering torches that encircled the area. In the past, the subjects of Camelot had only held candlelit vigils for dying members of the royal family; it seemed his great friendship with Merlin for the past decade had been noticed and accepted. It was just another aspect of the kingdom Arthur had apparently changed, even without realizing it.

He almost wanted to open the window, to shout down at them to go back to their homes, that there was no reason to assume their warlock was dying, no reason to share the grief with their king. But the impulsive young prince he had once been was now tamed by wisdom, and he knew he could no more will Merlin to stay alive than he could make the sun rise early.

The sun finally rose, striking his eyes painfully when his servant entered with a polite knock and opened the curtains. He stood, ignoring the bone-deep heaviness that comes with a sleepless night, and stood with the intention of dressing and going straight to Merlin’s chambers. The silence of the entire night weighed on him like a death knell, and his legendary courage was balking under the strain of it, making him unsure about whether he wanted to face whatever waited for him this day.

He had only just gotten his trousers and tunic on, not speaking a word unnecessarily, when there was a knock at the door—urgent, quick, and loud.

“Enter,” he called out.

Gwaine appeared, looking a little breathless.

“Arthur,” he gasped, “it’s Merlin.”

The king could not bring himself to ask for anything more, but then Gwaine’s whole face lit up with a knowing, famously charming grin.

“He’s asking for you.”

If anyone thought it strange that their king was nearly running through the halls barefoot, he never heard any comments come back to him about it.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Gwaine followed him into the little bedchamber, and he only barely recognized that Gilli was there as his eyes took in the sight of his friend, sitting up against the headboard and blinking weakly at him. Apparently both Gilli and Gwaine recognized a silent signal, because they left quickly—one with a respectful bow, and the other with a bright wink.

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Arthur did not stop to think about how kingly he appeared; as soon as the door had closed behind the others he threw all of that aside. Rushing forward, he scooped his friend in a careful but strong embrace, gripping the soft nightshirt in one hand and the back of Merlin’s head with the other.

He felt thinner arms encircle him slowly in return and he pressed his face against the dark temple with an uncontrollably joyful grin. It was several heartbeats before he let go, and in that time he could not see the flickering of numb fear and sadness darkening Merlin’s tired features despite the exuberant embrace.

When he sat back on the bed facing him however, he heard the heaviness in the familiar, weary voice.

“Arthur.”

He felt his smile fade, but only slightly, and he didn’t move one hand from the other man’s shoulder because he was unwilling to let go completely just yet.

“What’s wrong?” he questioned, as Merlin’s gaze darted down, throat swallowing tightly.

The sorcerer seemed to be gathering his resolve, and then his grey eyes flickered up to meet the other man’s, and there were many emotions in them but none Arthur felt looked like a man who’d just survived against all hope.

“I can’t use my magic,” came the soft, trembling words.

Arthur’s smile fell away, but he could not bring himself to be as unhappy about such a statement as he normally would have, the joy of finding Merlin alive still buzzing in his veins.

“What do you mean?” he pressed, remembering the bite mark Gilli had healed on Merlin’s throat. “Was it taken?”

“No, it’s-it’s like it’s ill,” he answered, a little helplessly but very sorrowfully. “I can feel it, burning like a fever but opposite, cold. Arthur—”

The other man listened more intently when Merlin’s voice dropped to a whisper, but his warlock’s bravery was limitless, he’d learned long ago, and he continued with a steadier voice than before.

“—it’s making me ill.”

Arthur was concerned now, almost as much as he’d been back in the forest, but the fact that his friend was now awake and with him made it much easier to be calm.

“How do you mean?” he asked.

He searched Merlin’s face in the pale early morning light, and found his skin still held a hint of grey and he was trembling visibly, those sea-colored eyes dim and tight as he seemed to search for words to describe a sickness Arthur could never know.

“It hurts,” the whispered confession struck him straight to his core. “My magic is…hurting me, like an infected wound or a broken bone. If I use it, even for something small, it flares like fire. I tried to open the window when I first awoke, for the light. And it hurt.”

“Well, you’ll just have to refrain from using it,” Arthur told him, “until you’re well.”

“The creature that poisoned me was Old Religion magic, Arthur,” Merlin answered with a vein of underlying frustration—not at Arthur himself, he knew, but at the warlock’s own plight. “I don’t know how long it will take, if it ever will get better.”

Arthur did not know what to say to that. He had lived all his life without magic, but he knew that for sorcerers—especially those born with it—it was a vital part of their existence. When Merlin spoke of his, it was almost as if he were speaking of a friend, and the way he used it on a daily basis was casual and instinctive, the same way men use their eyes to see and their legs to walk. Merlin was the greatest warlock ever to walk the earth, and to lose this must be worse than losing sight or limb; it must be like losing half of himself. It seemed selfish, perhaps, but even knowing all this, Arthur could not worry with his friend, because in his mind Merlin was alive and the rest they could face together.

This was his comfort, but meanwhile he watched Merlin sink lower and lower the longer he was without his power.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Foremost it was the sickness. Gilli and Merlin both had believed it would get better, and hopefully his magic would return as it did. But as the weeks passed, he did not get worse, but not better either; he remained steady as he was, weak and tired and constantly in pain. The only thing that changed was the almost daily flare-ups. One moment he would be fine, sitting in his respective chair next to Arthur at the round table, listening aptly to the proceedings; the next, he would be shivering as his body grew suddenly cold and a spike of burning ice would shoot through him from his chest all the way to his fingers and toes. On the good days, he would quietly leave the room and return later; on bad days, he would try and then collapse before three steps, curled in on himself trying to keep warm and endure the pain. The knights and councilmen all dreaded to see which it would be, but none did so more than Arthur, who may have appeared calm each time but whose hands were clenching into fists as he pulled Merlin toward himself and kept him warm with his own heat until it passed. If it was uncomfortable for anyone to watch, he did not care.

When Merlin actually tried using his magic, it was ten times worse, and sometimes even left him unconscious.

Once, a month and a half into the curse, a clumsy young stableboy lost his hold on a frightened mare. The wild horse kicked and shoved its way into the town square below the Citadel, directly toward Arthur as he stood with his back turned, talking with a group of noisy knights. Only Merlin saw the beast in time, and it took everyone else a long, slow moment to realize he had used his magic to pull a cart between her and Arthur. The muffled cry of pain shook Arthur into catching up with what had occurred, and he didn’t wonder or care about where he was or who would see as he dropped to his knees on the rough cobblestones and scooped Merlin up, wrapping him as tightly as he could against his chest when he felt the coldness already suffusing him. Merlin, despite his legendary strength, whined quietly as he struggled to catch his breath, unthinkingly pressing his icy fingers against Arthur’s stomach.

By the time Arthur looked up, the horse had been rounded and the stableboy was hovering nearby in the crowd, pale as a spirit and shaking with guilt. He bowed on his knees and bent his head to make himself lower than Arthur.

“I’m sorry, sire.”

The heartfelt roughness of his voice reminded the king of Merlin from only a few years ago, and even if he had wanted to, he knew he could never have blamed this innocent boy for something caused by people whose intentions had been exactly this.

Turning Merlin a little in his arms so that his face was less visible—an unconscious thought for his friend’s dignity he would never have had in previous years—he answered softly but assuringly,

“This is not your fault.”

The boy looked up with surprise, damp eyes only slightly lessened in their guilt, but when he saw the king meant it, his features flooded with relief still colored with sorrow for hurting the beloved warlock of the court.

Arthur felt Merlin go limp in his arms at last, and his own sadness made him feel almost numb to his surroundings as he rose and carried his warlock all the way to his chambers.

Even the simplest of spells had Merlin on his knees, dizzy and unable to try again for several minutes. The more complex the spell, the worst his magic’s reaction like a thousand frozen blades slicing him open from the inside out—no matter how many times it happened, each time he was surprised to find there was no blood on his clothes afterward. Every day Cruina’s threat settled darkly in the back of his mind, and the stress and fear that they would fulfill their plans and attack Camelot while he was so useless made him all the worse.

Merlin was fighting to maintain his composure, but the longer he suffered the harder it became. Arthur had started out believing he could help his friend through this the same way Merlin had helped him through so much in the past, but as the weeks went on and Merlin still did not come to him for comfort or support, he was uncertain what to do. 

Merlin, for all his girlish talk about Arthur’s feelings, was inclined to keep silent about his own; it had taken Arthur, now thirty, a long time to realize this and oftentimes he still saw Merlin as an overly emotional counsellor waiting to make uncomfortable conversation. Sometimes, despite their trust that had appeared since Merlin’s magic was revealed, he forgot that his friend still hid things from him.

Several times Arthur remembered this, but when he went to ask Merlin directly to talk he always walked away more upset than before. Half the time Merlin, clearly as confused as he was in the switching of roles, offered him a wide smile and assured him he was fine, considering. The other half of the time he did talk, but Arthur felt he did nothing except offer the same encouragements over and over with no good answer.

Two and a half months in, and Arthur experienced what he would have easily called another one of the worst nights of his life, even if it was not as publicized as battles or deaths were.

It had been a lovely spring day, perfumed with freshly-bloomed flowers growing along stone walls and freshly-baked bread from the newly-opened windows of town houses. Arthur informed the men he would accompany them on their daily patrol, much to their delight; the king, not having seen Merlin smile in four days, physically dragged him into the square and practically shoved him onto a horse. The warlock grumbled a bit but did not protest nearly as much as he might have, especially when they passed through the gate and into the forest beyond.

“You look happy,” Arthur called back as they trotted along, putting just enough mockery in his tone to overshadow his own happiness at seeing it.

Merlin glanced around where he had been watching a couple of butterflies dance around each other, and his gentle smile reached his eyes.

“I am,” he answered back, and his voice was casual but the look on his face held depth the two of them understood.

“Good,” Arthur said, straightening his shoulders and looking forward to hide his grin. “Perhaps your good mood will last long enough to help me with some work when we return. We still have to go over the census from the northern lands.”

“Fun,” came the expectedly sarcastic response, “but I don’t see what that has to do with me. You’re the king. I’m just the king’s sorcerer. The census has nothing to do with me.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, turning to look at him again and not even attempting to hide his playfulness, “but the time goes faster when I’m entertained, Merlin, and watching your tiny mind try to understand what you’re reading is very entertaining indeed.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“What if I say I don’t want to do it?”

Arthur ignored the teasing hopefulness in Merlin’s voice.

“Then I would tell you I’m the king and you have no choice. You have to obey me.”

As the path widened a bit, Merlin urged his horse up beside Arthur and came to a slow walk beside him.

“I never have before,” he pointed out, not having to worry about the knights overhearing because everyone knew how he talked to the king these days and no one seemed to care, least of all Arthur.

“And where will you hide? In the tavern as usual, I assume.”

“I am never in the tavern. I don’t know why that was the only place Gaius could ever think to say. I told him so many times to tell you anything but the tavern.”

“You mean when you were going around casting spells behind my back all those years?”

“Yes…no….”

“Or when you were sneaking out in the middle of the night to meet the Great Dragon, which you let me believe I’d defeated until he dropped in front of me out of the sky one day at your calling?”

“Well—”

“Or when you were changing into that _ridiculous_ old man disguise and creeping about the castle insulting everyone for no good reason?”

Merlin had the gall to look affronted.

“I never did that,” he deadpanned.

“Perhaps I’m just remembering wrong, _Dragoon the Great_.”

He glanced back to watch as Merlin laughed brightly at that part of their lives that seemed so amusing now. He allowed Arthur to get a few steps ahead as he basked in the thought of talking so freely about it all, but then suddenly his eyes caught a tiny flash of reflected sunlight in the trees. He recognized the edge of a blade hidden behind a tree a moment before an arrow swooped over his head from the opposite side of the path.

“Arthur!”

The men were alert with their swords drawn within seconds, but even so the attackers outnumbered them twice over. One of the younger knights was cut down on his horse before he could defend himself.

Merlin jerked on the reins to halt his own horse as men began to fill the path from both sides. He kept his eyes on Arthur, who had already taken down two men and had a third on his knees ready to give in. He was so focused on his friend, preparing to use his magic whenever it was most needed since he knew it could happen only once, that he did not realize someone was moving toward him from the brush until his horse bucked in fear; he lost his hold on the saddle and fell backwards, and his spotty vision was overwhelmed by the sight of a gleaming blade moving straight toward his throat. His magic, though frail and twisted still, reacted instinctively, and he felt the freezing burn of it hit him as the man flew backwards, struck a nearby tree, and went limp.

He hissed as the agony went on, just as it always did, his magic protesting violently at being used. He curled in on himself on the dry grass as the sounds of clanging weapons filled the air along with his harsh whines; through the pain he could see Arthur nearby, holding his ground with all the skill and valor of the champion he was, but then a shadow fell over the ground and a bulky form blocked his sight. This enemy had lost his sword, but his muscles bulged as he lifted a jagged rock high over his head to slam down on Merlin.

 _“Arthur!”_ his own desperate scream for help echoed around him as he covered his head with a shaking arm.

There was a thud and then a gurgling groan, and Merlin looked to see the rock had fallen a safe distance away and Arthur stood over the unmoving body of the man, looking down at his sorcerer with worry in his eyes.

Merlin saw it coming—gods help him, he saw it—but his pain was so great and his body shaking so badly from the cold that he could not find his voice again. In an instant, the sound of chainmail snapping was all he could hear as one of the attackers drove a blade against Arthur’s side. The king cried out sharply and spun with clumsy grace to end the man’s life a moment before he collapsed, only a few steps away from where Merlin lay.

Merlin’s terror overwhelmed his suffering for a moment, but he could only reach toward his friend with one hand and whisper his name helplessly, breathlessly, before he lost consciousness at last.

\---------------------------------------------------------

When Merlin awoke, it was with Arthur’s name rasping from his throat.

He sat straight up and had only just registered he was in his own bedchamber when Gilli put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“The king is all right,” he told him, looking steadily into his eyes as Merlin tried to catch his breath. “His injury was not serious and it will be only a couple more days until he’s healed fully. He is in the council chambers now, meeting to discuss the attack. He instructed me to tell you he would come here as soon as he was finished and to wait for him.”

Merlin could see he was telling the truth, and he forced his heart to slow as he sat back against the pillow Gilli moved up for him.

“I left some food for you at the table,” the young physician said as he prepared to leave, “as well as a potion for pain if you feel you need it.”

Merlin nodded, and then realized he owed this man—who had been trying so hard to help him—more than just that.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll repay you once I’m well.”

If it sounded hopeless to Gilli, the man was kind enough to ignore it, and shook his head slightly.

“You saved my life all those years ago, and then got me this position when I returned,” he answered. “I only wish I could do more for you. Come see me if you need me, Merlin.”

Merlin did not even hear the door click shut, as dark thoughts swept in and surrounded him—darker than they had been even before this. The sound of the knights battling for survival with him so useless on the sidelines, seeing the youngest one murdered while he could do nothing but watch and conserve his power for Arthur, and—worse of all—the ripping cry of pain as Arthur was cut through, unprotected as if he weren’t the Once and Future King, as if he didn’t have a guardian meant to be keeping him safe, as if Merlin wasn’t even with him. He could have been killed so easily. A little to the right, a deeper cut, a second blow, and he would have been dead before Gilli would have had time to heal him. And what had Merlin’s magic done?

It had saved himself. Arthur was his greatest responsibility—more than himself and his life—and his magic had only been good enough to save him, while his cry for help had distracted Arthur and made him vulnerable to attack. This sickness had turned him worse than useless; he had become a risk, as much that fragile clumsy serving boy Arthur had once believed him to be. Without the use of his magic, his whole purpose for existence fell apart.

He thought in a flash of what Gaius would say if he knew Merlin’s thoughts. It had been a few years since he’d truly needed his mentor, but now he ached for his advice and support. Surely he would have known something to do, or at least he would have known the words to say that would remind Merlin of his worth. As it was, any memorized echoes of Gaius’ voice were drowned out by his own frustrations and fears that he would never regain his purpose, that he was cursed to live out the rest of his life without the biggest piece of himself, and that he might someday soon watch Arthur die because of it.

For the first time he let himself think about what it might be like if he really never regained his magic. He wasn’t sure how he could learn to live like that.

With a newfound determination fueled by an irrational anger, he rose from his bed, grabbed his old spell book—the first one given to him by Gaius and still his most prized one—and stalked into the main chamber.

\---------------------------------------------------------

When Arthur entered the sorcerer’s chambers, he thought from the doorway that Merlin must not be there anymore. He was just about to close the door and search for him when he heard a harsh sound from behind a table. He rounded it and was alarmed to find his friend on the floor on his knees, arms wrapped around his stomach as he sucked in air sharply.

“Merlin! What are you doing?”

The sorcerer stumbled to his feet and released a shuddering breath. He ignored Arthur completely, flattened one palm to an open page of his book of magic, and began to speak; before the king understood what he was doing, his eyes had already flashed gold. A high-pitched keening sound tore from his throat as he collapsed to his knees again in the same position.

“Merlin!” he shouted, pushing him back when he stood and tried to reach for the book again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It could be a cure,” he gasped out, pointing to the book with a shaking hand. “There—it could be a cure.”

Arthur looked and found the page open to a healing spell designed specifically for magic-induced illnesses. He felt his shoulders drop as he realized what was happening. Never losing his grip on the front of Merlin’s tunic, he held him steady as he turned back around to look directly into his pain-filled eyes.

“We’ve tried that spell already,” he said with deliberate gentleness. “Gilli tried it three times, Merlin.”

“Gilli’s magic isn’t as strong as mine,” came the response, harsh and pleading. “I am Emrys. I can do things no other sorcerer can. My magic can do this, Arthur. It can.”

Arthur was already shaking his head before he’d even finished speaking.

“Your magic is ill, Merlin,” he said even more kindly. “If you try to force it, you’ll never get well. You must let it heal.”

Merlin’s breaths were still coming in pants, and he was gripping Arthur’s wrist tightly with both hands as he stared unseeingly at the ancient scrawled words in the text. Arthur relaxed his hold on his shirt when he saw some of the fire leave those familiar tired eyes.

“But it’s not healing,” his friend said, and it might have been an argument if it was Arthur he needed to convince. “It’s been nearly three months, and it hasn’t gotten any better. I’m starting to think it never will.”

He stepped around Arthur, not towards the book but towards the meal table, and the king felt a rush of compassion for him.

“Merlin—” he began.

Whatever he would have said was cut off when Merlin slid three empty plates across the tabletop and hurled them into the far wall where they shattered into pieces. In the most stressful times of his kinghood, Arthur had done the same once or twice in his warlock’s presence, but never had he seen the reverse. It actually made his breath catch, not because he could ever fear Merlin’s anger, but because Merlin—calm, gentle, patient Merlin—had been driven to this. When his friend turned around again, there were tears glittering in his eyes and choking his voice.

“I don’t understand why,” he nearly shouted. “I have done everything I was created to do—everything the prophecies asked of me and more. I protected the prince of Camelot until he was made king and I still do now, I brought magic back to the realm, I defeated Morgana and Mordred and the Saxons and every other enemy that would have taken this land. I never asked for this responsibility; it was forced on me like I’m a slave to it. I’ve been tortured, wounded, nearly killed, and still I did it all—everything I was meant to do—and I wanted nothing for it but to live in peace when it was done.”

He threw a wooden cup, which bounced and hit several objects in one corner, but if he cared that any of it was broken he did not even glance at it as he continued, tearing his cloak from his throat and throwing it to the ground as well.

“I’ve given my whole life to this kingdom, to fulfilling my destiny, and what if this is what I get in return? I can’t spend the rest of my life like this—I can’t!”

There was nothing else close enough to throw, but instinctively and without thinking he cast a spell to shatter a handful of bottles on a nearby shelf. A second later, before the gold had even faded from his eyes and the glass had stopping ringing, he cried out at the agony of the spell and his knees finally buckled under him.

Arthur, Merlin’s words echoing in his ears, moved to him and tried to pull him up, to get him warm where he was shivering with cold.

“Leave me alone.”

It wasn’t the viciousness of the words that shocked Arthur, but the strength with which Merlin shoved him away. He’d been crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet and he fell backwards, his back forcefully striking the wide leg of the table. If anyone had seen, no doubt they would have been infuriated at a former peasant treating their king in such a manner, but Arthur was not even thinking of himself as Merlin’s king—he hadn’t for years, in fact. After what they had seen and endured, he was Merlin’s friend first, his equal in all respects except that his blood was royal and Merlin’s was not.

Except that wasn’t the only way they were different. Merlin had magic—was magic—and he’d lost that and so much more defending a kingdom he would never even rule. He was right; he’d never asked for this, and yet he’d shown more wisdom and bravery than anyone Arthur had ever known, including even his best knights. Of all the purely evil things he’d seen in his life, seeing Merlin like this was the worst of all. Whether they had known or not, Barric and Cruina had struck a blow worse than any physical attack on Arthur could ever be.

Merlin’s body was shuddering as his arms tightened around his chest and his head bent further, his breathing only evening after several moments. Arthur sat and watched, and it was not very often that he had nothing to say, but he’d said so much that hadn’t helped up until now, and the intensity of Merlin’s suffering was more than he’d even realized. So he sat and felt dizzy with his own helplessness until Merlin lifted his head with clearer eyes.

“Arthur—”

He looked to where Merlin’s hand was reaching and found the wound in his side (which was much better after Gilli’s magical treatments but not completely healed yet) had opened back up and was soaking a tiny patch of his shirt with blood. He could not tell if the dark shadow in Merlin’s face was from pain or guilt, but the former he could not help and the latter he could.

“It’s nothing,” he dismissed it, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Merlin’s eyes remained locked on that spot of red for another moment, and then he looked away to the floor, his hand falling uselessly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Merlin—”

“I have some things to finish up for Gilli’s supplies,” the other man interrupted, his voice sounding strangely normal but with a quivering undertone that betrayed his emotions. “I promised him I would have them finished by sundown. I’ll see you later today, or perhaps in the morning.”

Arthur was very frustrated with feeling unsure what to do, but he could not justify forcing his presence on his friend when Merlin was clearly attempting to regain his composure. He stood and went for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.

“I’ll see you later, Merlin,” he repeated the other man’s words back to him.

“Yes, sire.”

The sorcerer nodded slightly, obviously trying to look busy with his fingertips at some fresh potion bottles, but failing as he was only staring blindly at the wall. Arthur closed the door and felt blind himself as he went about his remaining duties.

That night, he could not sleep as Merlin’s heartbroken tirade repeated endlessly in his mind, and he wound up pacing before the empty fireplace until dawn. When Merlin arrived, his warlock behaved as he had for the last few weeks, not mentioning his outburst as he remained nearly silent at Arthur’s side the entire day. Arthur wanted to mention it, to ask him how he was doing and if he meant what he said and whether or not he really couldn’t survive without his magic. But there was never a good moment, and he feared his asking would only make it worse, so he remained as silent and brooding as Merlin.

The sorcerers under Barric and Cruina’s orders attacked once more a week later, but were fought off again thanks to the magical knights who Arthur had stationed at the borders. While he focused on protecting his people, however, the king’s thoughts were torn, half of him consumed with what he felt was his other greatest duty. He could not forget Merlin’s hurting, and the echoes of it chased him into each night’s sleep until he found himself smashing a few plates on the walls himself in secret.

\---------------------------------------------------------

It was only two more weeks later when Leon came bursting into his chambers as Arthur was surveying a map with the royal cartographer first thing in the morning.

“Sire,” he said without formal apology for his interruption, “it’s Merlin.”

Arthur did not wait to hear what he said; these days if Merlin needed him unexpectedly it was usually because of a particularly bad manifestation of his sickness. But when he caught a glimpse of a familiar dark head through a crowd in the courtyard, he rushed past Leon and was surprised to find Merlin did not appear ill at all.

The people parted so he could enter the circle they had made around the sorcerer, and Merlin himself was standing in the center with a smile as bright and silly as any Arthur had ever seen of him.

“Arthur!” he exclaimed when he saw him, throwing his arms around his neck without regard for the watching eyes all around them.

The king returned his embrace willingly, feeling for coldness or shaking as he did, but pushed him back after a moment to look questioningly into his face.

“My magic is back,” Merlin cried happily, eyes gleaming as bright as the sunlight reflecting off the silver button of his cloak.

“The illness is gone?” Arthur hardly dared to demand.

“Yes,” he answered, his grin growing impossibly wider. “I woke this morning and I couldn’t feel it anymore; there’s no pain, no cold, nothing. It’s gone, finally really gone, and look—watch this.”

He cupped his hands together whispered.

_“Gewyrcan lif.”_

When he opened his hands again, a delicate butterfly flitted up, its blue wings matching the color of the cloudless sky above as it rose upward then away toward a woman’s cart of summer flowers. And Merlin was still smiling with utter joy. (3)

The breath Arthur released was almost a laugh, as the same joy spread to him at last.

“Merlin!” was all he could think to cry out happily, as he pulled him in for a proper embrace.

Merlin allowed himself to be manhandled as Arthur yanked him forward into his arms and pressed his face to his throat. He could feel the other man’s smile and could see it spreading through the crowd—the general gladness of the land that only came when their beloved king was known to be happy. Everything was well again for the first time in months; with his magic returned, Merlin was himself again, the kingdom was better secured against attack, and most importantly of all Arthur was again safe. He was healthy and powerful once more, and there was nothing to keep Merlin from his fulfilling his true role in life.

When Arthur pulled back, Gwaine—who along with their other friends had been fetched from the training grounds by an exuberant Leon—unceremoniously hauled him halfway off the ground and hugged him while he laughed and felt himself blush. So absorbed by the knights’ affectionate pats and embraces and the excited chattering of the people, he never noticed it when Arthur’s smile faded suddenly. 

The king continued to watch from a few steps away as Merlin laughed and joked with the others, his eyes lit up and his movements energetic and strong like Arthur hadn’t seen in much too long. It should have been one of those rare and glorious moments when everything was perfect, but for him there was still a shadow over the celebrations. Despite everything, all Arthur could see was the thinness and paleness lingering in Merlin’s face, and the slight shakiness of his hands from lack of sleep and adequate meals the past three months. These were the painful reminders of the sickness his friend had received while fulfilling a duty that had indeed been forced upon him, by a destiny that demanded he sacrifice himself for a king who could never repay him enough.

Within a week everything was normal again and Merlin had all but forgotten his previous dark mood, but his angry and frightened outburst hung like a ghost in the back of Arthur’s mind. He’d known for years about their destiny, the prophecies, everything, but it had never struck him that Merlin was the only person who protected Arthur rather than the other way around. His loyalty-fueled courage, his unspoken vow to protect Camelot at all costs, the dangerous element of magic that Arthur could never hope to understand, all made him the one man in all the five kingdoms Arthur couldn’t really keep safe. Merlin was right; he deserved to live in peace after all he’d done for the kingdom, and so far that had not happened and perhaps never would, so long as he was in this position. It just wouldn’t leave him, the thought that another curse or something even worse could happen again at any moment…and with all his skill and wealth he would be useless to save his friend if it did.

 

**To be continued**

\---------------------------------------------------------

(1) Gilli is a character from 3x11, _The Sorcerer’s Shadow_. I actually liked him and thought he would be a good physician once he learned some confidence and self-control.  
(2) Reference to _The Poisoned Chalice_ (1x03)  
(3) The spell you probably recognize from _The Diamond of the Day_ , Part 1 (5x12)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a visiting prince takes a special interest in Merlin, Arthur sees it as his chance to set things right in the only way he knows how--by sending Merlin away for his own safety.

Merlin only barely avoided knocking a stack of laundry out of the hands of a passing maid as he took a hallway corner a little too sharply. She squeaked quietly in alarm as he shouted a sincere apology over his shoulder, and he heard her bashfully reply, “That’s all right, my lord,” as he took the next corner toward the throne room. Though it had been seven years since he’d been promoted to Court Sorcerer of Camelot, he still wasn’t quite used to being called that by those who had once been his own class and it still struck him oddly sometimes. (At his initial complaints, Arthur had laughingly told him it was a sign of respect and even though Merlin himself had never learned how to show any, most people wanted to acknowledge the status of their superiors.) In this instance, however, Merlin was certain he didn’t deserve it—Arthur had asked him to be there before the arrival of the visiting king, and thanks to a spell gone wrong, he would be lucky if he made it to the welcoming formalities.

He burst in just as the people were settling toward the sides of the large room, and was only partly conspicuous as he dashed around a few _actual_ lords. He halted with minimal dignity at Arthur’s side in front of the throne, having to adjust his cloak where it had gone askew in his running and trying to calm his breathing without being overly obvious.

“Thank you for joining us, Merlin,” Arthur half-whispered through his teeth.

“Sorry,” he whispered back, panting, “there was a…”

He ran out of breath and tried to portray _a magic-induced fire blast_ with a gesture, but Arthur just looked sidelong at him without amusement and then focused on the opening throne room doors. 

The whole place quieted as the royal party entered, and Merlin was distracted from his own pounding heart at the sight of the mysterious strangers. Their messenger had arrived only three days before, requesting rooms for the traveling king and prince of Arlose, a kingdom none of them had ever heard of but nonetheless must have existed, because the messenger was dressed in even finer clothing than Camelot’s messengers and he offered a letter sealed with a royal stamp.

There was always a layer of concern when another king ventured into the gates of Camelot. Though Arthur had united the land into one peaceful and mighty kingdom, there was that underlying threat that someone, somewhere, would decide it was not good enough. Even kings who spoke words of friendship could be arranging a war in secret, and this king—King Saren, he had called himself in the letter—hadn’t even spoken a word to them in any form yet.

Camelot had always been known for its great elegance, but the rich blue fabrics and silver-threaded details of the visitors’ attire certainly rivaled the deep reds and golds of Arthur’s ceremonial garments. Not only that, but there was an air of _something else_ to them; the closer they got, the more Merlin could sense it, that atmosphere of earthy magic that clung to those rare individuals who had been born with the talents. He had never felt any that equaled his own gifts, but this was actually close enough to surprise him. So taken with the feel of the magic, he had to shake himself to follow Arthur down the stairs to greet them. Once he was at eye level, he saw more details—the blonde of the king’s hair under his golden crown was only a shade darker than Arthur’s, and the other young man who walked alongside him had the exact same pale blue eyes and wore a silver circlet denoting his princeship. They reminded him strangely of Arthur and himself, except this king’s shoulders were a bit narrower under his cloak and the prince’s nearly black hair was a bit longer and curled at the ends. He was relieved to see that, despite their strange appearance and mysterious origin, King Saren and his brother held no suspicion in their eyes; rather, they smiled openly at his and Arthur’s approach.

“Thank you for granting us passage through your kingdom, your highness,” the king spoke before Arthur had the chance, and Merlin was both surprised and impressed by the title of respect and the bow he offered. “My name is Saren, and I am king of a land far from here called Arlose. I know you do not know us, but we have heard much about you in our journey here and desired to meet the famous King of Camelot before we return home.”

Merlin could see that Arthur also was pleasantly surprised by the friendliness of this stranger, and he nodded with a returning smile.

“Welcome to Camelot,” he offered.

“Thank you,” he replied sincerely, and then raised a hand toward the other young man. “This is my younger brother, Prince Fenlore.”

“Hello, your highness,” the prince greeted him with a tiny bow and a sweet smile Merlin decided he immediately liked. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“The honor is mine, Prince Fenlore,” Arthur replied, and touched a hand to Merlin’s arm. “This is my court sorcerer and top advisor, Merlin.”

Merlin was a little startled to have been called ‘top advisor;’ though in the back of his mind he’d known it was true, he hadn’t ever thought about it as an official role. Then again, these days Arthur came to him first not only for personal matters as he always had, but also all official matters of the court, so he supposed it wasn’t so new after all.

He nodded to the brothers with a smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, and then he realized Prince Fenlore was looking at him with a strangely bashful recognition.

“You’re Emrys,” he said, and it would have been a question but his voice was sure with a hint of awe.

Most people in Camelot didn’t even truly know enough to call him by that name, but those who had heard the legends tended to look at him a bit like this prince looked at him now. All did except those in the castle, who saw him, at best, as a clumsy sorcerer with a lot of power who was closest friends with the king. He smiled a little wryly.

“Yes, but most people just call me Merlin. It’s the name my mother gave me.”

Fenlore took a small step forward in some controlled excitement, seemingly without realizing it.

“I’m so glad to be meeting you, Merlin,” he said, and the sorcerer felt his own eyes widen a bit at the bright enthusiasm in the younger man’s. “We live so far away, but even there the stories of your magic have reached us every once in a while. I hope that while we’re here we can talk. I would love to hear anything you’d be willing to share with me, and I have some books of magic from our lands you could read as well, if you were interested.”

“If,” his older brother interrupted, eyes shining with open amusement at Fenlore, “the king welcomes us here. If not, Your Highness, we will continue on our journey with no hard feelings. I know our request to visit was unconventional.”

Merlin watched the abashed disappointment pass over Fenlore’s face, and could not help but be both amazed and fascinated. The prince was smiling at him like they had been friends for years but also like he was some great wonder to behold. Despite his often distrustful nature (a product of constant vigilance to protect Arthur and the kingdom), Merlin found himself drawn to this young man. 

He shared a subtle look with Arthur, who appeared to be sensing the same amiability from their guests, and then the king addressed them with a smile.

“It would be our pleasure to house you here until you return to your kingdom,” he told them.

Their twin smiles brightened as they, too, shared a happy look.

“Thank you, sire,” Saren said. “We appreciate your hospitality. As I’m sure you can tell, my younger brother has wanted to talk with your court sorcerer for quite a while now. He is the most naturally talented sorcerer in my own kingdom, and I’m sure he could learn much from you, Merlin, and perhaps you from him as well.”

Merlin nodded and allowed his eyes to meet Fenlore’s with sincerity.

“I look forward to it.”

\------------------------------------------------

As it turned out, he had much more in common with Prince Fenlore than just their similar appearance and mutual love of magic. Fenlore was gentle, kind-hearted, and had a quiet sense of humor that was always cheerful and never rude or thoughtless. More than that, Merlin recognized an air of past suffering that seemed to resonate with his own; there was a heaviness in his eyes beyond the softness, a whisper of collected sorrows from conquered battles. Though he still retained an air of youth and innocence, he was grown up and thoughtful and had a few scars. Merlin could certainly connect with that.

It was his magic that the warlock connected with most of all, however. He was startled to find his first instinct was correct; Fenlore’s magic was nearly as powerful as his own. But where Merlin’s talents were spread across all forms, from the elements to healing to prophecy and more, Fenlore’s were concentrated mainly on those forms of magic that touched a more spiritual realm. He had powerful senses of things around him or to come (in Merlin, Arthur still called them “funny feelings”), could read a person’s mood and sometimes thoughts by their eyes, and had a deep understanding of the night sky which he said helped him hone his skills. He was also a fantastic healer, as one little boy found out when he tripped and scraped his knees as Merlin and Fenlore walked in the Lower Town one morning.

Saren, too, had magic; being brothers they had inherited it together. It almost amused Merlin to learn that the king, who seemed to have quite a bit in common with Arthur, was most magically skilled in warfare but had taught himself to work well with crystals too. Though his own king had tried many times to perform a spell under Merlin’s direction, Arthur had never been able to manage it or even come close, leaving him to wonder what kind of warlock Arthur would be if he had any ability. Now it seemed he had his answer.

Fenlore had brought many books with him in hopes of meeting the great Sorcerer of Camelot, but in truth Merlin was more interested in learning about him than he was the spells in the pages. Within a week they had become fast friends, and though Merlin had many friends in the palace, this was a special occurrence and he knew it. It seemed both Fenlore and his brother knew it too, because King Saren mentioned it as they dined together with Arthur one warm evening a few days after their arrival.

“Fenny has always been a bit quieter, but he has no trouble making friends when he wants to,” he said. “I’m glad to see he enjoys your company, Merlin. The truth is I was nervous you might be unwelcoming of another sorcerer; don’t be offended because of course I know better now, but I feared you might be arrogant from your fame.”

Merlin couldn’t help but laugh; he had some inkling of how those in farther parts of the kingdom viewed him, especially in places where Druid lore was more well-known and Emrys was a mystical ghost of a figure from an ancient legend. But here in Camelot his face was a common one, and most people in and around the castle had seen it for years before he’d ever revealed himself. Even the tales of how he’d changed the king’s heart about magic were becoming less and less important now as the years went by, the balance of ordinary life and magic becoming more settled for everyone in the land. Oftentimes he was so caught up in the everyday, sometimes boring, routines of his own life that he forgot the name Emrys even existed.

“Honestly,” he said, “I’m more afraid he might be disappointed. I know the stories can get a lot bigger than what they actually are.”

“They’re not!” Fenlore said emphatically. “You live up to your name, Merlin, even more than I expected. Your power is magnificent, but your wisdom is even greater, and your kindness greater than that.”

“Oy, now,” Arthur said, setting down his cup of wine where he’d been drinking as he listened, “he’s annoying enough as it is. Please don’t add pride on top of it or I’ll never be able to keep my patience with him.”

“ _You_ keep your patience with _me_?” Merlin answered with mock disbelief. “Well I suppose it _would_ be a shame for anyone in the court to have more pride than you, sire.”

Saren and Fenlore, who were now used to the unconventional banter of the king and his sorcerer after nearly a week, laughed at Arthur's play-shocked expression. Neither of them noticed the amusement fade from his face, however, when the attention moved toward the next serving of food arriving from the kitchens. Merlin, however, had been noticing these abrupt changes for weeks, and even when they joked and talked like always, there was a peculiar thoughtfulness about him as if he were considering some deep problem constantly. Even when Merlin had been nothing but a servant, Arthur had always confided in him when there was something wrong. It was strange to recognize it and yet have Arthur still keep it a secret from him, but when he had asked—multiple times already—the king had denied anything was wrong at all and changed the subject.

“Are you all right?” Merlin asked him softly, sure their guests were not listening.

Arthur’s eyes flitted from staring blindly at the tabletop to Merlin’s face and then back again. He picked up his chalice, the ring on his thumb reflecting in the warm candlelight as he moved it slowly toward his lips.

“I’m fine, Merlin,” he answered, firmly but not unkindly, before taking a sip.

Merlin watched his profile for another moment, that dark worry creeping over him again like it did every time Arthur had said the same thing. This was not the place for it, but he swore the next time he asked and they were alone, he would not be so accepting. Nothing good ever came of it when Arthur was brooding, least of all for Arthur, and Merlin hated seeing him in such a state even if he was doing so well at hiding it from others. And if he also hated that it seemed to be putting a wall between them too, he did not want to admit it just yet. To do so felt hypocritical when there were plenty of things he’d hidden from Arthur over the years, but to experience it from the other side was an unwelcome feeling.

He looked down at his own plate and felt a hand on his arm.

“Is everything all right?” Fenlore asked, and Merlin knew it was probably his magic that allowed him recognize the sudden shadow in the room.

“Yes,” he answered, but though he did not sound convincing even to himself the insightful prince did not press.

The conversation drifted into other ideas after that, but Merlin was sure Fenlore noticed the little glances he kept casting his king’s way.

\------------------------------------------------

Merlin had been perfecting a spell from one of Fenlore’s books and so it was quite late by the time he arrived at Arthur’s chambers. He only lightly knocked to announce his arrival and entered before hearing a reply. Arthur never even complained about it these days.

A young manservant, specially chosen by George (who was now in charge of all the servants), was holding Arthur’s nightshirt on the outside of the folding screen while the king undressed and tossed his clothes over top of it. He bowed slightly at Merlin’s approach; the sorcerer nodded in reply and held is hand out. The servant, who had been dismissed for the day many times by Merlin since beginning his job, already knew to leave after handing him the nightshirt.

The door to his chambers had just closed silently when Arthur emerged from the other side of the screen. He looked barely surprised at seeing his old manservant rather than his new one, and in fact he looked a little pleased. With a soft, sleepy expression Merlin had always thought made him look like a child, he bent his head and let his sorcerer slip the thin linen shirt down and over his shoulders. Merlin tugged it over his torso and looked into his eyes.

“Arthur, we need to talk.”

Arthur moved to take off his rings and set them on the side table next to his bed. It didn’t escape Merlin’s notice, however, that his eyes darted away from his friend’s deliberately as he did.

“About what?”

“Something’s bothering you,” he said, not too insistent but insistent enough. “I know it is, Arthur. It has been for weeks now. You need to talk to someone, and I’m here to listen, just like I always am.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” Arthur chuckled, making light of it as was his tendency when he did not want to admit to something deeper, “but I keep telling you, Merlin, I’m fine. It’s nothing you need to concern yourself about, all right?”

“So there _is_ something,” was his pointed response.

_“Merlin.”_

Under the half-amused patience there as warning in the king’s voice. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on one’s perspective—Merlin had never been intimidated by that tone, especially not when he knew he was doing what was best for Arthur whether he liked it or not. He took a step forward.

“I’m just concerned for you, sire,” he said honestly. “You haven’t seemed yourself for a while and I wanted to make sure you were well. If there’s anything you need, you know I’m here to help.”

“Yes, I know, Merlin,” Arthur answered, turning to face him again with a smile that did not quite touch his eyes, “but for now the kingdom is safe, the people are happy, and our only biggest problem is Barric and Cruina. There is nothing for you to do right now.”

“So why are you worried?” Merlin pressed, exasperated at getting nowhere with him.

“As I keep telling you, I’m not worried,” he replied with all the authority of his kingship, “no more than usual for being king, at least.”

“You’re lying.”

“Merlin.” And there it was, the end of Arthur’s limited patience with his eternal, unapologetic rebelliousness. “I appreciate that you are well again from the curse Barric put upon you, and that your magic can be useful once more, but you are seeking trouble where there is none.”

“Arthur—”

“I do not have to tell you everything.”

Merlin closed his mouth at that, knowing Arthur was right and yet averse to it nonetheless. It was unreasonable, perhaps, but he had always longed for Arthur to trust him with every thought he had, and he probably always would long for that even if it could never be.

“Valuable as you are to me,” Arthur continued, “as an adviser and a friend, there are some things I must keep to myself. Do you understand that? There are some decisions you cannot sway for me, Merlin. That is how it must be and you must learn to accept it.”

Merlin held his gaze for another moment, and then his eyes flickered downward.

“I understand,” he murmured even though he did not.

“Good.” Arthur moved toward his bed and pulled down the blankets. “When the time is right for me to tell you, I will, Merlin. But for now you must leave me in peace and trust that my decision will be what’s best for all of us.”

Merlin wanted to protest some more, but to do so after such a request would make Arthur believe he did not trust his judgment. On the contrary, Arthur was the wisest and noblest king ever to have taken the throne, and he would always make the right decisions in the end just because he was _Arthur_. That did not mean he had to face them alone, but this time he seemed adamant to do so.

“Very well, sire,” he assented, bowing slightly out of habit. “Get some sleep.”

“Goodnight, Merlin.”

As soon as the door had shut behind his friend, Arthur’s movements ceased. He sat on his bed with the blankets still pulled down, staring lost in thought at the place where Merlin had just exited. He had not realized it was so very obvious, the dark turn his mind had taken since his sorcerer’s illness a few weeks before. It wasn’t, he concluded, to anyone but Merlin. It was just another proof that the warlock had spent far too much time with him, that he could recognize such small changes in his behavior by his expressions alone. 

And for what? he wondered. Why had Merlin grown so diligent and meticulous with his questions, when no other adviser confronted him about anything unless absolutely necessary? That the warlock even felt the need to offer his help was answer enough. Arthur had spent far too many years taking advantage of Merlin’s faith in the prophecies—prophecies that may or may not always be true, pushing for an unfairness in roles wherein Merlin was the giver and guardian while everyone around him took advantage of his protection and goodwill. He had become so used to giving that it did not even seem to occur to him that he didn’t have to, so used to offering up his time, his power, and even his life, that he did not consider that the problems around him were not his to bear.

Arthur had always placed his kingdom before nearly all else, but there were some things that were worth putting before even his citizens. When she had been alive Guinevere had been one of those things, his infant son had been another even in the short time he’d had him, but he was suddenly realizing that Merlin likewise had always been so. He had never had reason to consider it, because where his love for his family and always been separate from the kingdom, his love for Merlin had become intertwined with it. After all, the prophecies were all centered upon his and Merlin’s combined skills at creating Albion. That was their purpose, their destiny, their reason for existing and being together…at least it was according to Merlin. 

For Arthur, however, he had not come to love Merlin because of a set of stories told from the past; he had loved his friend long before he knew of their destiny. How could he pretend that Merlin’s life did not mean more to him than that destiny? How could he justify using him, constantly and unthinkingly, taking from him to further his own kingdom, when Merlin had already given up so much to get them to the level of prosperity they had reached now? Merlin had been right, all those weeks ago when he’d been so overwhelmed with pain and sickness he had shouted at unhearing gods—he had accomplished everything the prophecies had said he should. He had made Arthur king, destroyed Morgana and her threats, and brought magic back to the land. There was no reason why he should not live the rest of his life without having to worry about another thing ever again.

But how could he say so to Merlin? How could he bring himself to admit that he relied on him for everything even though he should not for anything? How could he ask him to leave his home, the life he had built for himself? Merlin would never do it, not even for his own safety. And if truth be told, Arthur was not sure he had the courage to admit his feelings to him.

Such thoughts had been chasing each other round and round in his head for so long, and yet still he could not find an answer.

He crawled under the blankets and blew out the candle so that he could settle in the dark. His eyes drifted again to the door, and he knew Merlin would never have known that the worries keeping him from sleep so often were all about him.

\------------------------------------------------

The following day, Arthur suggested taking Saren and Fenlore on a hunt, which Merlin quickly turned into a picnic instead. The king rolled his eyes and huffed when his warlock arrived bearing an armful of food baskets and blankets rather than spears and crossbows. Saren laughed at Merlin, and Fenlore helped him load the baskets onto the horses, and then the four of them set off. (In the old days, Arthur would have brought at least two knights along for safety, but that was before he knew Merlin was as mighty as an army of men all on his own, so now he didn’t bother asking anyone else to come.)

Arthur and Saren were able to kill one steed and three hares before Merlin and Fenlore sneakily set up a picnic when they stopped to water their horses.

“Merlin!” Arthur half-shouted exasperatedly when he realized the plates were already set out and being filled with food from the baskets. “It’s not even noon yet—there’s plenty of hunting left to do before we eat.”

“The prince was starving,” Merlin half-shouted back with mock urgency, waving a hand in the younger man’s direction. “We could hardly let a royal guest starve, could we?”

Saren, who was smiling at his younger brother’s mock-innocent look, turned to Arthur with a shrug.

“That would be terrible manners, sire,” he agreed.

Arthur, seeing himself outnumbered, allowed himself to show his own amusement and shook his head.

“All right, all right,” he acquiesced, “but it’s for the prince, Merlin, not you.”

Merlin met Fenlore’s eyes with a knowing grin, and the two finished unloading the baskets of their delicious-smelling contents, which were really enough for eight men rather than four.

Twice during the meal, Fenlore caught Merlin staring worriedly at Arthur and asked if all was well. The second time, Merlin knew he could not pretend with Fenlore’s senses so acute, and he simply whispered back,

“I don’t know.”

Fenlore looked back and forth between the king and his warlock, but still wisely said nothing. His eyes met his brother’s however, proving that this now reached beyond just Arthur and Merlin and had been discussed by the brothers. Saren proceeded to engage Arthur in conversation while Fenlore encouraged Merlin up and toward the nearby stream.

“I know I have no right to intrude,” the prince said quietly as they tiptoed along the rocks in the shallow. “I am a stranger, after all. But if you need a friend to talk to, Merlin, I would be happy to listen. My brother and I have promised no secrets between us, but he is as trustworthy as I am and you can be assured he would never repeat anything we discuss about you or anyone else. We simply could not help but notice there seems to be a rift between you and your king that appears unusual for you, even not having known you for long.”

Merlin watched the glassy ripples of the water at their movements and then looked up at where the two kings sat and talked quietly together. He had made a friend out of Fenlore, and it seemed Arthur and Saren were likewise new allies, if the relaxed posture of his friend was anything to go by.

“You aren’t wrong,” he affirmed. “I’m not sure what it is, honestly. It’s been this way for a few weeks now and I’ve tried to talk to him, but I get nowhere. That’s unusual for us, too. Normally he is open with me, if no one else.”

Fenlore nodded thoughtfully, biting his lip as he stared down at a small fish circling their shadows curiously.

“I can see that,” he said cryptically, and Merlin knew he meant he sensed it by magic. “Has something happened?”

“No,” the other man’s answer was quick, but then he backtracked as a memory of recent pain and cold struck him, “well, yes, sort of. I was sick for a while, but I don’t know what that would have to do with anything. This didn’t start until after I got well again.”

“We heard rumors of your sickness as we traveled,” Fenlore said with some surprise, “but we did not know it was true. Were you actually cursed by someone?”

“Yes,” he answered, the reminder of Morgana’s hellbent followers troubling him. “I don’t know how much you know about Camelot or what happened here, but Arthur had a half-sister called Morgana. They shared the same father, the old king of Camelot, and King Uther lied to them both and claimed Morgana was merely his ward. She learned the truth, and because she also had magic while it was against the law to practice it, she grew to hate Uther and Arthur both and craved the throne for herself. She claimed that being the firstborn Pendragon made her the rightful ruler of Camelot.”

“We heard some stories,” Fenlore said, “but I did not know all the details. You defeated her, yes?”

“We did, but only after many years and a lot of suffering. Her followers have risen up again; without her they’re not as powerful, but they still pose a threat to Arthur if they were ever to find him unprotected.”

“Which is why they attacked you,” Fenlore said quietly, almost reverently. “You are Arthur’s protector.”

“I am,” he answered, with a secret pride. “I was destined to be. Arthur is…”

Arthur was what? To call him his king would be too simplistic; he was a king to many. To call him his closest friend would be misleading; he was much more than that. To call him his soulmate, his other half, would be too bizarre; and anyway, he and Arthur had never discussed that, not really.

“…well, he’s…”

No other words supplied themselves, but fortunately Fenlore rescued him with a soft smile that held some kind of mystic knowledge.

“I understand,” he said, “which is why I was concerned for you. At first I thought perhaps Arthur mistreated you, but now I can see that violence and unkindness are not in his nature, especially toward you.”

“No,” Merlin agreed, with an affectionate smile. “There were times when I was younger and I thought he mistreated me, but then I would see how other royals treated their servants and that put it into perspective. I wasn’t a very good servant, anyway; I probably deserved to be sacked or flogged most of those times when Arthur only shouted.”

His quiet laugh made Fenlore chuckle as well, as it did not take long to recognize that, despite whatever power or wisdom he possessed, the Great Sorcerer of Camelot _could_ be an idiot sometimes. Arthur’s immense patience with him was largely understated beneath a layer of shoutiness, but certainly there.

“I’ve grown up now,” Merlin continued, “and I know he treats me better than I deserve. Even back then, he often gave me part of his food when he thought I might be hungry or had clothes made for me when mine wore out, but if I ever tried to thank him he always acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about. Now he’s not nearly as secretive about it as he used to be. Since he made me court sorcerer, he calls me his friend without care for how it may look for a king to be friends with a farm boy from a small village. I don’t know what’s happened between us lately, but I’m sure it’ll resolve itself in time. He can be moody sometimes, but I can wait until he’s ready to talk.”

“That’s good,” Fenlore said, touching his arm with a smile that made Merlin feel strangely respected not for his magic but for being himself. “You are a good man, and so is Arthur. I hope that it will be resolved soon.”

Merlin nodded his thanks with a smile, and then stepped on a rock that was a little too slick and nearly tumbled straight into the creek. Fenlore caught him and helped him steady himself, and the two of them laughed.

Both the kings looked up at the commotion, each one amused at the laughter. Seeing that all was well and that Merlin and Fenlore seemed to be lightheartedly pointing to the plant life around the creek, the two went back to picking the stems off some red grapes from an oak bowl.

“Your sorcerer really is a remarkable man,” Saren commented at length. “As I said before, Fenny tends to be rather quiet. With Merlin he’s been so open and I really do appreciate the attention he’s given him. Merlin seems like the kind of person who tries to do what’s best for everyone. I think that’s why they connect with one another so well; Fenny is the same way—always thoughtful about the wellbeing of those around him. Has Merlin always been like that too?”

Arthur considered as the ate another grape, taking in the sight of his sorcerer as he helped Fenlore keep his balance while they crossed to the other side of the shallow water.

“He has,” he answered finally. “Often annoyingly so.”

“What do you mean?” Saren chuckled, taking a sip of wine from a cup.

“He just appeared one day, seemingly out of nowhere,” Arthur said, and his eyes lit up with the memory he’d never really considered before, their first meeting. “My manservant at the time disliked me. Apparently he’d been content working in the stables with the horses and did not appreciate having been moved into my personal service. He was young and I should have had more patience with him, but so was I and his obvious annoyance drove me mad. He’d been in trouble more than once for speaking rudely behind my back to other members of the household and I grew tired of it. Rather than showing proper leadership, however, I decided to punish him by humiliating him in the square in front of my friends…or those who I thought were my friends at the time.”

He could feel Saren listening intently, and the younger king’s sincere attention was a bolster for his admittedly darker mood of late.

“I was having fun, making the others laugh while I threw knives and a target I made the boy hold on his back, but then suddenly there was Merlin.”

He was surprised to realize he remembered it in such sharp detail, the soft but fiery blue of those soon-to-be-familiar eyes, the unaggressive but unafraid tone of his voice as he stood up to a man twice his size on behalf of a stranger.

_“You’ve had your fun, my friend.”_

“He took my attention from the servant and placed it on himself instead, and even after he knew I was the prince he still wasn’t afraid of me. Of course, I suppose now it’s clear why…..”

_“I could take you apart with one blow,”_ Arthur had said.

_“I could take you apart with less than that,”_ Merlin had answered.

“I thought he was mad, but turns out he was right,” he said with a slight feeling of amazement for how oblivious he had been then. “He could take apart the whole kingdom if he wanted to. But instead he chooses to defend us. He chooses what’s right even at risk to himself.”

There it was again, that dark, heavy knot of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He was staring at Merlin now, and so did not notice when Saren looked discerningly between him and his warlock before speaking again.

“We heard rumors of his illness as soon as we entered the kingdom,” Saren said, and even in his gentleness Arthur was shaken roughly from his thoughts. “Even the people on the farthest corner of your land speak of Merlin with the upmost reverence. The first night we spent near a small village on the other side of the White Mountains, where the tavern owner told us as much as she knew about Merlin’s illness and how he had acquired it, and how all the people in the village lit candles in prayer to your gods when they heard he was injured. It must have been a great relief to you, when he got well.”

“It was,” he said, aware that he sounded much more detached than he felt, so used to hiding such feelings behind a royal mask.

“You can see that he’s been ill,” said Saren thoughtfully, turning his gaze back to where Merlin and Fenlore dallied aimlessly near the other side of the brook. “It’s in his eyes; they’re still tired. It’s the same with my brother. It was a very long time ago that he was ill, but it took away some of his strength. His skin is just a shade paler than it was before.”

Arthur watched Merlin’s face and wondered if he had permanently lost some of his coloring as well. He found himself frustrated at not being able to remember. Suddenly, he realized what King Saren was implying.

“Your brother had the same illness?” he asked with surprise, finally looking away from Merlin to his guest.

“No, not the same,” said Saren, and now it was his turn to avoid looking into his new friend’s eyes as his own grew shadowed, “but Fenlore’s had to do with his magic as well. It wasn’t like Merlin; Fenlore’s magic wasn’t made sick. It was gone.”

“Gone?” Arthur repeated, never having heard of such a possibility.

Saren was silent for a moment, gaze downturned, but then he looked at Arthur and there was some great hidden sadness in his face.

“Our kingdom is so far away,” said he, “you’ve never heard the stories. Our grandfather was king of Arlose. The tale is a long one, full of broken trust, but it was not until our father was hours from death that he told me and Fenlore the whole truth. The throne had been taken decades before, and it was left to me and my brother to choose whether we would reclaim it or remain where we were, in a little village where we worked as blacksmiths and led simple, safe lives.”

“You reclaimed the throne,” Arthur said, feeling suddenly in awe of his visitors and guilty for not learning more about them sooner.

“We did,” Saren said, with a little pride in his voice as well as a touch of sorrow, “but it took more time and cost us much more than we ever imagined it would. At one point, my bond with Fenlore was nearly broken.”

At this, the younger king looked down in what seemed to be shame, his eyes flickering up to his brother before moving away again.

“It was my doing,” he said at last, more quiet now than ever. “The sickness, I mean—it was my fault. I forced it upon Fenlore.”

Arthur tried to envision how this could be, but he could not even imagine King Saren allowing someone to threaten his beloved younger brother, much less himself causing Fenlore’s magic to be taken from him. He could not bring himself to ask for the details, however, and remained silent for Saren to continue.

“It’s not a story I like to repeat,” the king admitted, not surprisingly. “He tried to warn me of the danger, but by then, I was so hellbent upon justice and healing our suffering kingdom that I was blinded. It was a complicated series of events, and there were mistakes on many sides, but in the end, Fenlore was the purest of us all—and the one who suffered the most.”

Arthur instinctively looked to Merlin, who was saying something to Fenlore as they leant down to look at something in the water. Both of them began laughing freely. Arthur felt a rush of affection for that smile, and subsequently a rush of sadness for the many years of pain that had taken some joy from it. Saren was right to compare Merlin to Fenlore; even their wide-set eyes were the same, as they watched the sunshine reflect off the scales of the tiny fish swimming at their feet. He had never seen anyone connect with Merlin so quickly and so deeply.

A thread of an idea formed unexpectedly in the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside in dread of what it might mean to consider it.

“What happened?” he asked, and then added more politely, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Saren smiled regretfully at him but answered willingly after setting aside his wine, having lost the taste for it.

“It is a long story, Arthur,” he sighed, “but suffice it to say I demanded too much of him. His magic is different from mine, you know; it’s stronger and better. I didn’t realize he had drained so much of it. He didn’t tell me. That was my fault, too. Our lives had been full of violence and war for so long, and I felt I had lost so much.”

Arthur flashed back to nearly two years before, when he had felt exactly the same, staring into the lifeless face of his queen. He had almost demanded too much, as Saren had worded it. If he hadn’t caught himself, he would have mourned Merlin that day too and only the gods knew where he’d be now.

“I was willing to do anything to make it worthwhile and take back our land,” Saren was saying. “Then, something happened—it would take too much to explain—but I blamed him. I blamed Fenlore, even though it wasn’t his fault. It was just…easy. Those who were actually to blame weren’t there for me to punish, so I took my anger out on him instead. Our friends—they didn’t travel with us this time, but I hope you’ll get to meet them someday—they were convinced it was Fenlore’s fault too, and so none of us noticed when he started getting ill from his magic’s being used up.”

Arthur felt the wideness of his eyes and worked to control his expression. The story was different, but still so much like what had happened in his own life that he couldn’t help but marvel at it.

“The worst part was, he tried to tell me.” Saren’s voice was trembling slightly now, his gaze faraway, seeing frightful memories Arthur could not. “I asked more than his magic could bear, and he tried to warn me of the consequences. He begged, actually begged me for his life, and still I was too stubborn to understand. I demanded he perform that final spell anyway, and then was stupid enough to be startled when it almost killed him.”

The younger king shook his head in old, suppressed anger at himself, and then took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Still, he didn’t tell me,” he said, sounding slightly more in control now. “I had said so many things to hurt him by then. He told me later he didn’t want to cause me any more grief than I’d already suffered, but I think it was probably more because he felt he _couldn’t_ tell me. He hid the pain from me until he couldn’t anymore, until he was so weak he couldn’t walk and hurting so much he could hardly breathe. It was only then that I realized what I’d done and what it was going to cost me.”

Arthur could not look away from his new friend’s face as Saren’s gaze flickered up to his brother. His eyes softened as new peals of laughter echoed to where they sat, and while Saren basked in the sound of his brother’s, Arthur likewise basked in the sound of Merlin’s.

“I don’t know how it was for you,” Saren continued, his voice now barely more than a whisper, his eyes never leaving Fenlore, “but for me, those hours were the worst of my life before or since then. If he’d died, I honestly don’t know what I would have done.”

At that, Arthur wondered about himself. What would he do? He would go on for the sake of his kingdom, stand staunchly in front of a burning funeral pyre and give some bold speech about the courage and loyalty of the Sorcerer of Camelot, but he would be numb and finally broken….

There his thoughts halted, too painful to go on.

“What happened?” he asked, his own voice no more than a whisper.

Saren’s eyes cut to him and refocused, as though he had forgotten where he was and to whom he was speaking.

“I gave him some of my power,” he answered. “There is a spell; it’s dangerous and at the very least it takes away half a person’s magic forever, but if done right it can transfer that half to another. We were on our way to battle; I had to be able to fight and I had never done so without magic, but I didn’t care. Nothing was more important than for him to survive. So we performed the spell and half my magic was ripped out of me, but it became part of him and gave him back his strength enough to live, gave him time to replenish his own magic. Then Fenny used it to protect me in the battle. That’s how good he is to me, and that’s why I’ve spent every day since then making our castle a place where he can live in peace.”

As Saren spoke these last few words, his eyes—still watching his brother—suddenly brightened and his face broke out into a smile. Arthur glanced over and saw Fenlore was grinning at them, his hands outstretched and his eyes glittering with gold as he pulled spheres of water from the brook and held them in midair, some bearing very confused-looking tadpoles and small fish. Merlin was smiling in amusement as well, and he turned to see Arthur’s reaction. The king of Camelot couldn’t help but shoot him a half-grin in return, and the sight of Merlin’s delight resonated deep in him and reawakened that idea he had tried to ignore.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Saren looked questioningly at him.

“About what?”

“You said your castle is a place where Fenlore can live in peace,” he replied. “What did you mean by that?”

“Well,” Saren said, “our kingdom is separated from most others by mountains on three sides and ocean on the fourth. We have no real enemies now, but all the same I made our castle a fortress, impenetrable to nearly all forms of attack known to us and guarded by magic. I designed many portions of the palace specifically for Fenlore; there’s a magnificent library full of books from all across the land, and a garden in the center with a stream running through it to the sea. Our household is full of joy, even more than I had planned thanks to our friends and the hard work of our servants. Many of the townspeople just outside the citadel have become more like friends than citizens and Fenny spends a lot of time helping there when he’s not in the castle fulfilling his duties. I don’t feel like I’ve given him all that he deserves, but still he thanks me so often, as if it’s a hardship to see him so happy.”

This last part he said with a fond chuckle and a shake of his head, but Arthur was no longer listening. The castle of Arlose sounded like a perfect haven, and if Fenlore, who was so much like Merlin, really was as happy as Saren said…. His heart was pounding, his palms sweating; it seemed he had found the answer he’d been seeking, and even if he hated it, he had to know if it were possible. He swallowed and unclenched his jaw.

“Saren,” he said, slowly, carefully, “may I ask something of you?”

The other king swallowed another sip of the wine and leaned back against the fallen log behind them.

“Of course, your highness,” he said. “What is it?”

Arthur’s gaze flickered up to Merlin, who was now bent down by the water, observing the smooth stones and oblivious to the thoughts playing in Arthur’s mind. He inhaled and thought in a flash of how his friend had looked covered in blood and half-frozen after his magic had been poisoned in an effort to protect he kingdom; the memory gave him the push he needed to set aside his own feelings.

“If I sent Merlin with you back to Arlose, would you take him?”

Saren stared at him for a long moment, a look of abject surprise on his handsome face, before he controlled his expression and answered with a question of his own.

“We would be happy to have him as our guest, but is he not needed here?”

“There are not many places in Albion where magic is well understood,” Arthur said instead of answering directly, his tone as sure and kingly as it had ever been. “Camelot had been the main center for magical knowledge for the last few hundred years, and when my father banned it almost all books and records of magic were destroyed. We have been gathering from all sources we can find, but there are so few sorcerers left after the Great Purge that there are hardly any authorities on magic remaining. I believe it would be wise on our part to send an expert to your land and learn what you know, if you would allow it. There is no better student of magic than Merlin.”

Saren nodded thoughtfully, taking another swallow from his cup, and then said with a welcoming smile,

“I would be honored to have Merlin visit Arlose, and I know Fenny would be thrilled.”

Arthur felt immensely relieved, his shoulders relaxing and a quiet breath escaping him, but while deep in his stomach the knot of guilt eased, a new knot formed in its place. As Saren turned his attention to the remaining grapes, he watched Merlin practice the same spell Fenlore had just demonstrated. His friend’s free laughter bounced off the trees when a large frog leapt in alarm out of the water sphere he tried to lift from the brook. This was one of those rare times when Arthur knew he was making the right decision, and yet he could already feel a strange, unexpected ache settling in his chest. It took him several hours to realize it was loneliness.

\------------------------------------------------

Saren and Fenlore had only planned to stay for ten days, and it was around noon the day before they departed that Merlin received a summons to Arthur’s chambers. He was almost surprised; it had been a long while since the king had actually requested his presence anywhere. It was a habit that Merlin followed him around during the day almost the same as he had when he’d been a pattering servant, but in the evenings there had been a peculiar air of distance that had driven Merlin away from staying with him into the night hours, talking and drinking as they used to do. With that had come a strange separation in which he did not feel as welcome even during the day hours. For him, it was a heavy and unwanted change, but Arthur had not even seemed to notice he wasn’t there anymore, and somehow that made it all the worse.

Now, however, he was glad to be called. Whatever Arthur wanted to talk about, perhaps he could steer the conversation around to pleasant subjects and they could talk as they had not too long ago.

“You wanted to see me, Arthur?” he asked upon entering and finding his friend leaned against the window, looking out into the courtyard below.

“Yes. Shut the door, please, Merlin.”

He did and moved to stand by the table, waiting.

Arthur turned and sat at his large armed chair at the head of the table; leaning onto his elbows, he balled his fists together and rested his chin on them.

“Please sit,” he said with a definite atmosphere of formality.

Suddenly Merlin was feeling uncertain. The only moments when Arthur was so solemn with him these days were when they were facing some great problem; in those moments, Arthur was King and Merlin was Court Sorcerer, and together they could work out the problem for the betterment of the kingdom before returning to their usual affectionate banter.

He pulled out the chair and sat slowly, recalling no reason for his friend to be acting in such a manner.

“There’s something I want you to do,” Arthur said. “I’ve been considering it for a while now and an excellent opportunity has arisen. I need you to hear me out, Merlin.”

He nodded willingly.

“Of course,” he answered.

Arthur sat up straighter, but rather than looking at Merlin he stared solemnly at his own hands or a little past them to the door.

“I’ve spoken with King Saren, and he has agreed with my proposition that our two kingdoms become allies.”

Merlin nodded again with a pleased smile; he was not surprised, but nonetheless impressed at the speediness of the treaty.

“I’m glad,” he said honestly.

“However,” Arthur continued, and the shifted in his seat now, a signal to Merlin that he had some less glad news he knew his friend would not like, “we also discussed the importance of proper use of magic, and since Arlose seems to be slightly more advanced than we are because of the Great Purge, Saren agreed to have someone go there and learn from them.”

“Right,” Merlin said, slowly and without trying to hide his questioning look.

Never before had Arthur mentioned Camelot’s need for outside knowledge on any subject, let alone magic. In fact, he admitted quite often that he knew so little on the subject that Merlin was to be considered the final authority in all matters regarding it.

“Therefore I’m sending you to Arlose as the representative of Camelot.”

If Merlin had been trying to hide his disbelief before, he certainly wasn’t now. He took a moment to comprehend if he’d heard correctly, and when Arthur held his gaze evenly the whole time he realized one or both of them must have gone mad sometime today.

“You’re sending me away?” he questioned, and he hadn’t meant it that way, but suddenly all the strange silences and awkward avoidances of the last few weeks took on a darker and colder life in his memory.

“I’m sending you to learn more about magic, for the betterment of Camelot,” came the diplomatic reply, apparently unfazed by his tone.

Merlin shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. But despite his usual wisdom, this wouldn’t be the first time Arthur had a wrong idea about something, and Merlin must be patient to help him see clearly again.

“Arthur,” he said, more calmly, “this is ridiculous. We have dozens of others who could go. I can think of three young sorcerers now, all of them in our army, who would benefit from such a journey and who could bring back what they learn if that’s what you want. There’s no reason for it to be me.”

“You are the highest authority on magic in the land, Merlin,” Arthur said, his voice as void of emotion as if he were addressing the council, “and you are already familiar to Saren and Fenlore. Saren told me he would be glad to have you as their guest. You could spend your days with Prince Fenlore, learning the ways of their magic.”

“And what of my duties here?” Merlin pressed, far from being convinced and, in fact, almost offended.

“I have already spoken with the council, and we have selected a few qualified individuals to divide your duties among them.”

At that, he was definitely offended.

“You discussed it with the council,” he repeated flatly. “And why am I the last to know?”

There was a moment of hesitation, just a flicker, but enough to reveal and entirety of unspoken words behind Arthur’s eyes—though what else there was to say, Merlin had no idea. Arthur, for all his pureness of heart and honesty, was sometimes as unpredictable as his father had been.

“The plan wasn’t made final until this morning,” he answered, still seemingly unaware of Merlin’s annoyance. “I had no reason to tell you until now.”

“No reason,” he repeated his words back again, unable to believe it.

“No.” And there it was at last, the sharpness of irritation like a blade cutting in his tone and flashing in his eyes. “As I have said I don’t know how many times now, Merlin, I am not required to share my thoughts with you. I am the king, and as such I make my decisions based upon the good of my kingdom, not on whether or not you approve.”

“And this is for the good of the kingdom?” Merlin answered back with heat of his own, unbothered as ever by Arthur's veiled threats of authority. “I am the court sorcerer, Arthur; I have sworn to protect you and your kingdom for years. Barric and Cruina are still out there somewhere, planning their attack on Camelot in Morgana’s name.”

“That’s exactly why I’m doing this!”

The violent outburst was unexpected, full of a mix of emotions Merlin could not begin to comprehend in Arthur’s eyes before the king stood and turned away from him.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Arthur,” Merlin said, feeling oddly drained, his voice much softer now but no less determined to change his friend’s mind.

There was another long beat of silence, during which Arthur’s tense back was turned to him. Merlin, patient, did not move or speak as he waited for Arthur to explain himself further. There was an undefinable heaviness to the atmosphere, like something terrible was about to be said, but this was Arthur, and Arthur was never cruel, least of all to Merlin.

And that’s exactly why he felt fear tightening his chest.

“I didn’t want it to go this far,” came the king’s voice at last, and even though it was gentle now there was a definite ring of dread to it that struck the sorcerer even harder than the shouting. “You’ve given me no choice, Merlin, as always, but to tell you.”

Arthur turned then, his shoulders tense and his gaze steady as he spoke calmly but without giving any hint of hesitancy.

“When Barric and Cruina attacked Camelot, they didn’t come after the army or me; it was you they attacked, Merlin.”

Merlin took a moment to take apart his meaning, but could find none.

“So?”

“Even all those years battling Morgana, it was always you she attacked first. She made it clear she believed if she could do away with _Emrys_ she could take the throne easily.”

A little comprehension was starting to form in Merlin’s mind, but he still didn’t understand really.

“Arthur, I—”

“Ask any citizen of this land, or any enemy for that matter, and they’ll all tell you the same thing—that you are Camelot’s greatest defense.”

Merlin’s brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of why Arthur would consider such a thing _bad_. It was true that he alone had saved Camelot and its king more times than anyone, even himself, could count, but he had always taken his duty with pride and thought it the greatest purpose any man had ever been given. He had made many mistakes, but as long as the kingdom was free of tyranny and the king lived well, he was content and had always believed everyone else was too. To have Arthur, who held him to the highest standards of anyone, speaking of such a thing as though there were some awful meaning behind it was disconcerting, but rather than saying so, he remained quiet and let his friend speak.

“When you were ill, Barric and Cruina used that against us,” Arthur continued. “They attacked twice, and each time they were driven back but lives of my men were lost. I cannot allow that again. I appreciate all you have done for us, but the time has come, Merlin, for us to reassert ourselves. In my father’s day, before all this talk of destiny and prophecies, hardly a single enemy even considered rising up against Camelot. After you and I united, the enemies have come from every side, and they’ve come after you. You are the center of it all.”

That almost sounded like an accusation, and Merlin returned it sharply.

“No,” he said, “ _you_ are the center of it all. They come for you, Arthur. It’s my destiny to keep you safe.”

“At what cost?” came the relentless reply, not angry but just simple, straightforward, and regretful. “Magic has become our greatest weapon, and you our greatest warrior—”

Merlin gave a little start at that, the word so strange and misrepresented in association with him it almost felt like an insult.

“—and when your magic was useless, our enemies thought they had the advantage. They were bold and swift and they took lives, Merlin. I cannot let that happen anymore. We, as a kingdom, must prove ourselves strong again; our army appears weak, and we must demonstrate that we can take apart our enemies without Emrys guarding our every move.”

Merlin’s head was spinning a bit with all of this, but at the front of it all there was that word, _useless_. He tried not to let it sting, but the memory of Arthur collapsing at the hand of one of those enemies right in front of him, while his sick magic could do nothing, was one that still haunted him. He had sworn to himself nothing like that would ever happen again, and Barric and Cruina had learnt poisoning his magic only stopped it for three months. They would not try it again. There was no reason to believe anyone ever would.

“Arthur,” he said, with an undertone of incredulity at this whole conversation, “my magic is well now. It works just fine.”

“And what if it were to happen again?” came the unbending rejoinder.

“It won’t.”

“What if it’s something else next time, then? What if you’re killed, Merlin? Then our enemies will crash down on us like wolves to unguarded sheep.”

The breath caught in Merlin’s throat at that. The way Arthur had said it, talked about his death like it would be some great inconvenience…he had always accepted that his role in their bond was to love, guide, and protect, while Arthur’s was to rule and reign. Still, he had hoped that perhaps Arthur’s obvious affection for him could run deeper, that his loyalty to Merlin might come close to Merlin’s to him. He knew Arthur had not meant to be so callous, but to hear that his life was only worth what his destiny demanded, from Arthur’s own lips, was a deep gash in his hopes. Though he knew it might be overly dramatic, he suddenly felt like a fool for thinking he was welcome in these chambers as anything more than a weapon with a wit to amuse the king.

He wanted to be angry, but when he rose from the table he felt nothing but a lonely sort of heartbreak.

“Arthur,” he said quietly, moving to stand behind him where he had turned half-away looking out the window, “you’re making a big mistake. Sending me away will do nothing but put you all in more danger.”

“I understand it’s difficult,” Arthur replied, and the regret coloring his expression wasn’t enough to ease the warlock’s hurt, “and I am sorry for that, but I need time to reclaim my power as king. I need to earn back the respect of my allies and the fear of my enemies. And the only way for me to do that is for you to leave so no one thinks it’s you hiding in the background casting spells to make me appear more than what I am.”

Merlin had to press his lips together to keep from replying in irritation at that. He had kept many secrets, yes, but he was not a deceiver by nature and neither was his magic. Arthur was what he was because of _himself_ , and Merlin’s magic was only meant to preserve that, not to turn it into a lie or some kind of performance for the world to gape at.

But Arthur’s mind was set; Merlin could see that, and if he were honest with himself he was now too angry and hurt to want to fight anymore.

“How long will I be gone?” he asked, bluntly, with a hint of refusal.

“Until I feel sure I have accomplished my task.”

“And how long will that be, sire?” he rephrased, adding the title as an icy afterthought.

Arthur’s gaze darted downward.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly but without remorse.

Merlin didn’t know how else to take that, except that it would be a long time and Arthur did not care. He looked away, feeling too many emotions to bear looking into his friend’s face any longer.

“And what if I don’t want to?” he asked, fearing the answer but pushing for it anyway.

Arthur looked at him then, and his eyes were as steady and unfeeling as Uther when he’d pitilessly handed out a death sentence from his severe throne.

“Do not make me order you, Merlin. I have no desire to announce you exiled, for your sake.”

Merlin actually felt himself bite his tongue so hard it hurt as a flood of outrage swept over him. After everything he had done all for Arthur, and after surviving his magic’s illness and thinking he would never suffer like that again, this was almost worse. At least when he’d been ill, he’d still been here in his home at Arthur’s side. The thought of going far away to an unfamiliar kingdom where he would be of practically no use to anyone was one he would never accept, but it seemed the choice had been made for him.

“Arthur—” he tried again, one last time.

_“Merlin.”_

Their eyes held for a long moment, and then Merlin closed his mouth and dropped his gaze to the floor, forcing himself to hold onto the arguments bubbling in his chest.

“I need to go make arrangements, then.”

“Of course.”

He never knew that, as soon as the door closed behind him, Arthur’s stony countenance fell away and was replaced with a peculiar combination of relief and uneasy acceptance. It was not in his nature to lie, and he was glad he had prepared a false reason in case Merlin were to press as he had. 

Merlin would be safe and sound; in time he could build a new life, and without constantly having to remain at Arthur’s side perhaps he could make a true home for himself at last. For the very first time, Arthur felt he’d done something completely right and unselfish for his friend rather than he other way around. He’d set him free in the only way possible.

That didn’t stop the ache in his chest, though, as he realized that by this time tomorrow, Merlin would no longer be a mere shout away. He hadn’t realized until now how much he craved that security.

\------------------------------------------------

The next afternoon, Saren and Fenlore took their time loading their luggage onto their horses. The few servants and knights they had brought from their own kingdom said their goodbyes to the friends they had also made in Camelot, and then the king and prince emerged from the main castle entrance after a final lunch with Arthur. Merlin had not been there, but none of the three of them commented on that. And if any member of his household did not yet know why Merlin’s horse was being saddled and loaded, no one asked aloud.

“I’m glad to have become your friend, Arthur,” Saren said, reaching one hand out toward him. “I’ll have my council read over the treaty and send it back to you before the end of the season.”

“Your visit was an honor,” Arthur replied, gripping his arm companionably. “I’ll look forward to when we can meet again.”

Saren nodded and moved down the steps to his steed, and Fenlore bowed to Arthur with the same cheerful smile his brother had offered.

“Thank you for your hospitality, your highness.”

“You are welcome here anytime, Prince Fenlore, truly. I wish you a safe journey back.”

It was several more minutes before doors opened once more and Merlin exited. He looked as formal and undisturbed as any judicious lord, the deep purple cloak that had been a gift from Arthur fancier than his old tunic and trousers worn specifically for travel. He stopped on the stairs in front of the king but did not look directly at him, and Arthur spoke first.

“Have a pleasant journey, Merlin. Stay safe, please. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Merlin’s expression never varied except for his eyes, which flickered up for a moment before dropping again, but inside his very magic was protesting every step away from this life he loved so well.

“Sire,” was his only reply at first, but just when he started to turn away he paused and looked straight into his friend’s eyes. “If you need me, send for me, Arthur. Promise me that.”

Arthur felt his jaw twitch but knew he could not comply, for Merlin’s sake.

“Send word when you’ve reached Arlose safely.”

Merlin swallowed at the deliberate avoidance of his request, and did not bother to repeat himself; instead he walked away and mounted his horse. He could see the knights, his friends, watching with concern, and he could feel Fenlore’s gaze heavy on his shoulders. He never wavered, though, and neither did Arthur, who watched with a blank face as Merlin steered his horse after the prince’s and their party disappeared around the corner toward the northern gate.

 

_**To be continued** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this fic's title from a book about the original Arthurian legends, called _The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights_ :
> 
> "And Merlin bade farewell to the king he had created."
> 
> Just a little trivia info. x) Third and final chapter will be up next weekend! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was looking back over this chapter, I realized that basically half of it is dialogue between Merlin and Arthur. Sorry if that bores anyone, but I felt they had a lot to discuss after the first couple of parts to this story. ;)

“Good morning, Merlin,” King Saren offered his famously handsome grin as the heavy oak doors closed.

The smell of scrambled eggs mixed with melted cheese and freshly cooked sausage hit him as strongly as the scent of the newly-bloomed flowers had when he’d opened his windows that morning. Apparently Merlin wasn’t the only person in the palace at Arlose who had noticed the colorful arrival of spring, as the center of the breakfast table was adorned with a silver vase of freshly-clipped violets and snapdragons.

“Morning, your highnesses,” he replied with a sincere smile, taking his usual place on the king’s left across from Fenlore. “Sorry I’m late.”

“There’s plenty of food left for you,” Fenlore replied with a fond shake of his head, because this was almost a daily conversation and no one had minded his tardiness since the beginning of his stay.

Merlin met his friend’s eyes with a knowing grin as he delved into the delicious-looking plateful of hot food.

“Fenlore and I were just discussing an idea,” Saren said, sitting back in his chair as he used his fork to toy with the last of his own food. “Now that the last of the snow is gone, I’d like to take a short trip to the ocean. It’s only a day’s ride, and you haven’t seen it yet, have you, Merlin? It was the beginning of autumn when you arrived and we never went before the cold set in.”  
“No, I never saw it, but I’d like to,” Merlin answered, taking a swallow of the fresh lemon water.

“Winter comes so quickly here,” Fenlore said a bit wistfully. “It’s always beautiful, with all the snow on the open fields and the tops of the mountains, but it’s so very cold we never like to venture out very much.”

“Yeah, I could see why,” he agreed, remembering the long nights wherein the temperatures dropped well below those in Camelot’s winters, leaving the whole view from his window a glittering frozen world of silence and ice the next morning.

“I know you grew restless once or twice, Merlin,” Saren said. “Perhaps now you can see the beauties of Arlose we talked so much about and you’ll have cause to believe us.”

He spoke partly in jest and partly in compassion with no hint of annoyance, which Merlin appreciated, considering he had probably been much less subtle about it than he’d intended the last few months. The castle of Arlose and its surrounding town were as magnificent as Saren and Fenlore had described, made of whitewashed stone and full of ornate artwork and happy, generous citizens. Saren and Fenlore’s friends likewise were some of the brightest and most interesting people Merlin had ever known. But no matter how stunning and welcoming it was, it was not Camelot. It was not his home, and there was not a day so far that he had not looked out his window to the road in the distance and wanted to take it back to where he belonged.

But Arthur had not sent for him, had not even written a single letter or answered the one Merlin had sent in the beginning. So he stayed where he was and tried to remember if this loneliness was the same he’d felt back in Ealdor before he’d discovered his destiny.

“Sounds like fun,” he said a little quietly but with a smile.

Fenlore shot him a sympathetic look which he felt more than saw, but they had discussed it so many times already and neither of them had ever been able to fathom why Arthur had made him leave with them.

\-------------------------------------------

They had just finished loading the horses with supplies for their overnight journey when a couple of arguing voices rose above the din of the daily crowds passing through the square.

“You told me to open it!”

“I did not! I told you to open the blue bottle!”

“That bottle _was_ blue, you old coot!”

“No, it wasn’t, you annoying child! It was purple. The blue one was on the other side. Now you’ve gone and let out the only wolf’s howl I had. Do you know how hard they are to capture?”

“I know how loud they are now. Nearly deafened me. I’d’ve taken it out on you, if it had—chopped your ears right off, swoosh, gone.”

Before the older man—their resident court sorcerer, who had been their friend for many years and had helped them reclaim their kingdom, they had told Merlin—could snap back at the young woman whose wild hair reflected her spirit, Saren’s amused shout thundered over them.

“That’s enough, you two! Hurry and get your things on your horses so we can go. We’re starting late already.”

The two shot hateful looks at one another as they did as they were instructed, reminding Merlin of the knights when one or two or them had stayed out too late and were grumpy the next day. That thought stole a little joy from him, as Arthur was far from the only one he missed in Camelot, but he pushed it aside as he secured his own bags.

Then, over the top of his horse he saw a flash of familiar red that stopped his breath.

He moved around to get a better view and sure enough, the two capes of the riders flapped as regally as ever in the wind as their horses galloped into the square and halted close by.

“Leon! Gwaine!” he exclaimed happily.

The two had just dismounted when Merlin had reached them. He embraced them each in turn, and then stood back to get a better look, feeling as though he hadn’t seen such familiar faces in decades even if it had only been half a full year of time. Gwaine in particular was gazing at him as if he felt the same.

“It’s good to see you, Merlin,” he said sincerely.

“We’ve missed you,” Leon added.

He smiled at one and then the other of them, feeling a joy he hadn’t felt in weeks of so-called peace.

“Why are you here? Did Arthur send you?”

It was then, when the two men looked at one another without answering, that a darkness began to creep into his chest. He did not even bother acknowledging it when Saren, Fenlore, and their friends appeared beside him.

“What’s wrong?” he pressed sharply.

“Merlin,” Gwaine said, carefully, “Arthur was injured. There was a raid in a village close to the city and he went to stop it. He was hit with an arrow that must have been coated with some kind of poison.”

“Everyone thought he was well,” Leon said, "but he must’ve been hiding that it was getting worse. After a week he fell into a fever and could not get out of bed. A day later he lost consciousness and no one’s been able to wake him.”

“The wound is badly infected,” Gwaine finished. “Nothing is working, Merlin. Please, you must return with us.”

“Why didn’t you get me sooner?” Merlin demanded, his worst fears heightening his frustrations of the last few months.

“He ordered us not to,” Leon confessed. “But you will come now, won’t you?”

Merlin did not even give an answer. He turned to his hosts, who were both watching him with great concern obvious in their faces.

“I’ll return for my things,” he told them.

Both men nodded, and Fenlore reached out and squeezed his hand with both of his own.

“Good luck, Merlin,” he murmured, knowingly.

It was too long a journey back to Camelot on horseback, and Merlin knew he would never have the patience to make it that far. Without asking permission or regarding the people going about their business in the square, he stood a little apart and shouted up into the sky.

 _“O drakon, erkheo! Anale tendai gard amasen fulakson!”_ (1)

Kilgharrah had allowed his old age to take him just after he’d had the privilege of meeting Arthur face-to-face at last, and so the only dragon remaining to hear him was the one he had not seen in years. Whatever had caused Aithusa’s betrayal with Morgana, Merlin had long-since forgiven it. He did not know how Aithusa felt, but right now that was not important. There was only one important thought in his mind, and he would not be dissuaded from it.

Despite the deformities that had stolen his naturally beautiful shape, Aithusa landed with grace in the center of the square. People ran from what they were doing to crowd into doorways and stare out of windows, not afraid since their trusted king and prince stood alongside the visiting warlock, but certainly not wanting to provoke the new and striking creature. Aithusa had grown since Merlin had last seen him to half the size Kilgharrah had been. A tiny bit of happiness flickered in the back of his mind about that before it was put out by his worries.

Aithusa did not look at Merlin, his eyes trained on the cobblestone ground.

“Whatever lies between us,” Merlin spoke with that strong authority that often overtook him in moments like this, “I need your help now. You will take me to Camelot to heal Arthur.”

Aithusa had never regained his voice after the trauma he’d endured, Merlin knew that, and they both knew Merlin could easily force him to comply if he tried to refuse. But after only a moment his answer came by action rather than word. He bent his head low to the ground so that Merlin would have a way to reach his back.

Merlin felt a rush of emotions he would have to consider later. Dragonlord or not, he had never enjoyed forcing his will upon Kilgharrah or Aithusa. He turned to the two knights.

“I’ll see you back in Camelot.”

They tore their eyes away from the mysterious creature that had once been a fearsome enemy and nodded solemnly at him.

He took his place on Aithusa’s back behind his strong neck and only spared one more glance down before being lifted into the air. Suddenly the wind was cutting across his face nearly enough to take his breath away, but he could not enjoy the magnificent feeling this time, not when Arthur could already be dead in his absence.

\-------------------------------------------

The people in the courtyard of Camelot had the same reaction as those in Arlose, but still no soldiers rushed to attack Aithusa when it became clear who had brought him within the city walls.

Merlin leapt down and turned back to the dragon, ignoring the murmurings going on all around them.

“Thank you,” he said fervently.

For the first time since the day he was born, Aithusa raised his eyes to look directly into Merlin’s. There was a whole exchange between them in a single moment; silent though it was, Merlin felt it echo all the way into his soul. Then Aithusa crouched down and took off again, his wings—still mighty despite his torture—sending out ripples of wind that shook the flag posts mounted around the square.

Merlin heard his name uttered over a dozen times in amazement from people talking all around, but he ran up the stairs into the castle without acknowledging any of their attention.

When he burst into the king’s chambers, Gilli was standing at Arthur's bedside with a cool damp rag in one hand. Merlin felt a mix of relief and fear—relief that his friend was still alive, and fear because apart from his sweat-soaked face and ragged breathing, he appeared dead, as grey and thin as a fading corpse. It would only be a few hours before he would die if this continued, and it broke Merlin’s heart in ways he would never be able to describe. For months he had longed to see his friend again, but in all his daydreams Arthur had been vibrant and bold and full of subtle affection as always—never like this.

“Merlin,” Gilli greeted him, but did not appear surprised at his appearance as he moved out of the way for the other sorcerer to take his place at Arthur’s head.

Merlin placed the back of his hand against his friend's forehead and was alarmed at the strength of the heat he felt. Arthur was panting for air in his uneasy slumber, his unconscious expression like he was in agony, cheeks sunken in. The warlock folded down the blankets and lifted the bandages at the right side Arthur’s chest; the wound was just over the ridge of his shoulder, a hole the size of a coin where the arrow had pierced deep, black inside and the purple-red around the edges spreading outward. When Merlin brushed his fingertips lightly over it, it burned to the touch and Arthur twitched and gasped in his slumber.

Merlin looked up to where Gilli was awaiting instruction.

“Get me a fresh bowl of water,” he said, not sparing a thought for politeness, “and bring yarrow, mint, and cinnamon.”

The younger sorcerer offered one obedient nod and rushed from the room. Once he was gone, Merlin took up the rag he had dropped on the side table and dipped it into the brass bowl of water there. He half-knelt on the bed and swept it over Arthur’s forehead and over his too-prominent cheekbones, and then over his already-damp hair.

“Arthur,” he said gently, but was not expecting a reply and so did not let the silence disappoint him.

He cupped his friend’s slack jaw in one hand as he ran the cloth over his forehead again. He was half-distracted in his work, as he looked into the face he knew so well but seemed so foreign in its sickness after many months.

“Come on, dollophead,” he tried again, with no real irritation or accusation in his soft tone. “I told you this would happen, didn’t I? But you just never listen. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right now. I’m here.”

If it appeared to Merlin like Arthur relaxed just slightly in his restless dreams, he discounted it as his own hopeful imagination.

When Gilli brought back the materials he requested, Percival and Elyan were at his heels. Merlin was as happy to see them as he had been to see Gwaine and Leon, but he could not take the time to do more than greet them hastily before he sent them all away with assurances that everything would be all right.

The spell took only moments, a brief stringing of ancient words together to command his magic. It still sounded too loud and strange even to his own ears, his voice that instinctively became rough and deep so that it sounded more like his aged form. He felt the gold flicker in his eyes, felt his precious magic rushing forward as eager to help their king as he was. Then it was over and he dropped the smoking herbs into the older water bowl, their purpose accomplished.

He pushed Arthur’s right shoulder up off the pillow and watched as the black infection vanished like a month’s worth of healing in a few heartbeats of time. The reddish-purple turned to a healthier pink of fresh skin well into replacing the damaged portion, and at the same time Arthur’s pained gasps evened out and quieted. 

Merlin let out a soft breath of relief and took his time redressing the clean wound in the silence of the well-known chambers; he expected that by the end of the week the bandages wouldn’t even be necessary. To be sure of the spell’s success, he laid his hand on Arthur’s brow; under the layer of sweat just starting to dry, the skin was cool and his expression was peaceful, endearing in its childlike slumber, and much more like the Arthur he knew.

He left just long enough to tell the guards the king would be well before he returned to the chair at the bedside, and he knew he’d been gone much too long when Arthur’s turning over in his sleep after a while made him grin like an idiot.

\-------------------------------------------

He was halfway falling out of his chair, mostly asleep but not quite, when a raspy voice broke the silence just like the morning rays were breaking the night’s darkness.

“Merlin.”

His eyes flew open in response and he realized suddenly that he couldn’t wait to see those blue eyes. But were it not for the confused scrunching up of the legendarily handsome face, he might have assumed Arthur was still sleeping because he had not moved otherwise.

“I’m here,” he said, leaning forward and settling his hand on his friend’s arm. “It’s all right. You’re better now. I healed you.”

The disgruntled-and-exhausted look only grew more pronounced, and Arthur took a moment without opening his own eyes yet before he replied.

“What are you doing here?”

Merlin could not stop the tiny flinch, trying not to hear the displeasure underlying the slow sleepiness. He had hoped…well, it didn’t matter what he’d hoped. Despite their bond, he and Arthur were very different men, and what had felt like too long to him might not have been long enough for his friend.

“Gwaine and Leon came to Arlose to get me,” he answered neutrally.

There was definitely displeasure in his expression now, as the slumber of several days finally rolled away and he became alert enough to open his eyes—but Merlin wasn’t given the honor of being looked at, which disappointed him unexpectedly.

“I told them not to,” the king said, his voice clearer and surer now but still weak.

“You were dying,” Merlin told him, because maybe he just didn’t realize how badly he’d needed his sorcerer’s help.

“Gilli had it under control,” came the stubborn answer.

“He didn’t,” he replied equally as stubborn. “Arthur—”

“Where’s my manservant?”

Merlin clenched his jaw less out of anger and more out of hurt. Arthur no doubt wanted help bathing now, as he always did when he’d been injured or ill, and they both knew who had always helped him bathe regardless of whose job it actually was. Arthur’s request was a message that Merlin was not necessary, that the manservant whose name Merlin could barely even remember had become his trusted help in the last six months.

He released Arthur’s arm.

“I’ll get him, sire.”

When he shut he door behind himself, Merlin leaned against it in the hall for a moment and sighed in frustration before making his way toward the kitchens where the servants often congregated.

\-------------------------------------------

Merlin acknowledged the thanks and congratulations of the people with as much grace as he could, but really they felt meaningless in light of Arthur’s continued silence throughout the rest of the day. As much to distract himself as out of a sense of duty, he went around the castle and renewed protection spells he’d placed on doorways and windows, and then met with a council that had already requested his presence overseeing some new law or other about the trading of spells in the Lower Town. 

Next the knights begged for his attendance at the training grounds, because his magic was the greatest to practice against, they said. Percival and Elyan asked him questions about Arlose and told him all the castle gossip since he’d been gone, and for a little while he forgot about the wall between himself and Arthur as he laughed at their stories. The aging cook was as ornery as ever, they told him, but nonetheless the older woman personally brought him three bowls of hot, delicious food for lunch and then another three for dinner, smiling and bowing each time when she saw him. At last, when he still did not hear from Arthur, he made his way up into his own chambers.

The rooms were covered in a layer of dust and practically smelled of disuse, but they were nonetheless the home he had missed for so long. He went about straightening and reorganizing places where Gilli had clearly been studying from some of his books, as well as gathering up the blankets of his bed to be washed and replaced with fresh ones.

Finally, after the sun had just gone down and he could hear the night creatures of spring emerging over the dying street noises through his open window, there was a knock at the door. Arthur’s newest manservant—Jathan, he thought his name was—peered into the room.

“The king requests your presence, my lord.”

Merlin knew it was foolish and unfair to be jealous of a boy hardly old enough to have a serving job, but nonetheless he could not help it. This boy had now taken _all_ of his responsibilities regarding Arthur away from him…or at least, nearly all. The one greatest responsibility, it seemed, had gone unchecked.

“Let me ask you something,” he said as they walked together toward the king’s chambers. “When you were helping the king bathe and dress, did you notice his wound was getting worse?”

He could sense the discomfort blooming beside him.

“I did, my lord.”

“And did you notice he was getting thin?”

“I…I didn’t particularly, my lord.” Then, hastily in nervous self-defense, “I tried to get the physician for him, but when I offered his majesty ordered me not to.”

By now, they had reached Arthur’s chamber door. Merlin paused here and looked at the younger man. Later he would have to apologize for his childish animosity, but in the moment all he could think about was the most important person in the world to him dying slowly and painfully because his servant was too nervous to do anything about it.

“You should have done it anyway,” he said simply.

The servant’s wide eyes grew wider when Merlin pushed open the door without knocking first, and the boy darted inside after him and stood some little distance away.

“Will that be all, sire?” he requested, looking as though he’d give anything to have Arthur say yes.

The king was standing by the lit fireplace, which was not quite blazing in the cool springtime air but still provided plenty of light in addition to the few candles scattered around the room. He was wearing fresh nightclothes, and seeing him barefoot in his favorite white sleeping tunic and soft brown breeches made Merlin ache to be able to sit down and talk comfortably with him as he always had.

“That will be all, Jathan. Good night.”

“Good night, your majesty.”

Merlin simply stood without speaking after the servant rushed out, until finally Arthur broke the silence, running one hand over his injured shoulder unconsciously.

“I do not think it was necessary for you to have come, Merlin,” he said, “but I understand why Leon and Gwaine felt they should get you, and I wanted to thank you for what you did. You will be repaid for your trouble, of course.”

Merlin knew it was his own insecurities that made him feel offended, because Arthur had meant it in the fairest way, and so he bit back a sharp refusal and said sincerely in a quiet voice,

“I was happy to do it.”

Arthur continued conversationally without indicating he noticed the awkwardness between them.

“I heard you brought the White Dragon here.”

“It was the fastest way to return,” Merlin replied, admittedly feeling a little defensive of the last dragon.

“I’m not scolding you, Merlin,” he said, turning and picking up a goblet from the table with his uninjured arm. “I know what we agreed, but as long as he was in your control and was not a danger to the people, I have no issue with it.”

“I didn’t have to control him,” the warlock answered, still warmed by the thought. “Aithusa was willing to bring me without being forced, when I told him it was your life in danger. He wanted to help.”

Arthur paused with the goblet at his lips to process this news, and then he swallowed some of the grape juice and set it aside.

“Good,” he said, and Merlin could tell he meant it.

There was another brief silence as the king turned back around to stare into the fire again, the shadows shifting across his regal face and turning his fair hair like burnished gold. Still, with all his ever-youthful handsomeness there was a tiredness to how he held his jaw and evidence of stress darkening under his eyes. Merlin hadn’t even considered returning to Arlose, but if he had been, that alone would have changed his mind.

“I do appreciate your help, Merlin,” Arthur’s voice cut into his thoughts, “but I think it would be best for you to go back as soon as you can. I expect you’ll be able to leave by first light tomorrow?”

“No, because I’m not going.”

He had said it in the least confrontational way he could, but still he could see the dark emotions beginning to creep into Arthur’s face. When the king spoke, however, his voice gave no indication of anger at being addressed so blatantly.

“Merlin, we discussed this.”

“Did we?” he shot back, the many complex emotions of the last few months, and especially the last few days, overtaking him suddenly. “Because all I remember is you making the decision for me and not listening when I tried to tell you it was a poor one.”

“What I do,” the other man spoke with all the surety and obstinacy of Uther Pendragon, “I do for Camelot. I thought that was made clear to you.”

“How was this for Camelot?” Merlin responded, unwilling to relent to the tone. “If Gwaine and Leon had waited any longer, you would have died and the kingdom would have been left without a ruler.”

“You cannot know that, Merlin.”

“You were nearly dead when I got here,” he said, more exasperated than anything. “If I had not arrived when I did, you _would_ have died, Arthur. And there would have been no reason for it.”

“The reason,” came the unyielding reply, “was for the strength and security of Camelot.”

Merlin felt his nostrils flare in annoyance he hadn’t felt since he’d been a strong-willed serving boy and Arthur a haughty prince.

“Why do you never _listen_?” he burst out, thinking back to the last eleven years and wondering when he would have to stop asking this.

Arthur abruptly spun around to face him, and although he still appeared frail and he held his right arm stiffly, there was no doubt the fire had returned to his temper. It flashed in his eyes and burned in his voice when he spoke.

“Why don’t _you_?” he nearly shouted back. “You have always accused me of arrogance. _You_ are the arrogant one, Merlin. You are not the only sorcerer in this land. When I first fell ill I sent for all those we’ve been hearing about, the healing witches and warlocks from across the land.”

There had only been two promising stories they’d heard before Merlin had left, and they were both of ambiguous figures from two edges of the kingdom.

“It would have taken too long,” he replied with what they both knew. “By the time the messengers reached them and they traveled here, you would have been dead.”

“You don’t know that—”

“And even if not,” he continued, ignoring him, “they would not have known what to do any more than Gilli did. The spell that healed you was one I designed myself, Arthur. No one else could have done it. Your life would have been lost and your people would have been without their king.”

“That is where you are wrong again, Merlin. This kingdom stood for many hundreds of years before you were here to protect it, and it will stand after you and I are gone. There are many men among my knights who are worthy of bearing the crown and caring for the people as much as I do.”

“But none of them are _you_.”

Merlin did not know how else he could say it. Of course he had considered it too—what would happen once Arthur died of old age, probably with no heir. In such a case, the council had decided the kingdom would pass on to whoever Arthur chose to take the royal seal. But for Merlin to live in a Camelot without Arthur would be like living in a house with no furniture—it could never be a home. He had not allowed himself to consider that far into the future, but should Arthur go first, he was sure he would not be long in following. He would never have another king.

“Your plan to prove your strength would have been worth nothing if they had succeeded in killing you,” he said when the king gave no reply. “Do you really not understand that, Arthur?”

His friend—still his friend?—whirled around on him again, eyes flashing even bolder than before.

“Do not speak to me like I’m a fool, Merlin,” he bit out. “Contrary to what you might think, I am not stupid.”

“I know you’re not!” Merlin half-shouted back. “That’s why I don’t understand why you’re doing this!”

“It is your arrogance again,” came the infuriating conclusion. “You think you are Camelot’s only savior. Well, you’re not. Our enemies attacked us, and perhaps one of them got in a lucky blow, but they did not advance onto Camelot. We took them apart where they stood and they got no further. That was the purpose of this—to show our enemies we can defend our land without your help.”

“And if you had died, you really believe it would have been worth it?” Merlin replied, unimpressed.

“Yes, to keep my people safe,” Arthur said without hesitation. “And if you are not gone by sundown tomorrow, I will consider it a threat against Camelot.”

Merlin could only take a moment to be stunned silent as old, forgotten nightmares resurfaced—a sorcerer’s stake built of dry wood piled in the town square, the eyes of the people watching him with disgust, the eyes of his friend looking down on him with fear.

“Me,” he said, almost monotone, unable to believe Arthur’s apathy, “a threat to Camelot.”

“You heard me,” he said, surely recognizing what such a thought would mean to Merlin but seemingly not caring. “I must look after my people first, Merlin. I feel your presence here is a hindrance to that. Therefore I want you to leave.”

Merlin shook the frightening visions from his head.

“You’re wrong.”

“ _Merlin_ ,” the voice was as vicious as a clap of thunder before a storm, “ _leave_. I command you.”

Merlin thought about that for a long moment, eyes to the floor. It had been years since Arthur had come close to commanding him, and he knew the consequences placed upon someone who denied such a high order. No one in the kingdom would even think to do it.

Still, he raised his eyes back up and met Arthur’s evenly.

“No,” he said simply, holding his gaze.

Arthur clenched his jaw in what could only be controlled rage.

“You would dare to defy my command—the command of your king?” he spat out.

Merlin took only one breathless moment to answer.

“I do,” he said calmly.

Merlin was certain he had never seen Arthur this angry, and a heavy knot was forming in the pit of his stomach as he realized their friendship may not ever recover if he continued. They had started out as prince and servant and somewhere along the way their bond had turned into an understanding between friends, but Arthur still wore the crown and Merlin still wore old working boots, and there had always been a certain line of audacity the warlock dared not cross. They both knew he had the power to raze Camelot to the ground if he chose and Arthur could do nothing to stop him, and his submissiveness had always been a sign of trustworthiness to the careful king. To stand up, to declare his will to be stronger…this could very well create a turmoil he couldn’t undo, but he knew he could not stop now. The alternative was that the next news to reach Arlose could be of Arthur’s death, and he could not bear that thought.

For an instant, he was almost afraid the other man would strike him. However, a heartbeat later he felt ashamed of even thinking such a thing; Arthur had never hit him or anyone else out of selfish anger. The king’s only response was turn away from him in outright contempt, a look he had only ever seen directed at the worst of criminals brought before him for judgment.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said after him, meaning it, knowing that he was tearing away much of his friend’s security, “but your reason is not good enough, Arthur.”

The other man said nothing, just stood before the window staring out into the night.

“So go on,” he continued, trying to retain his calm but knowing some intense desperation slipped through into his voice anyway, “tomorrow at sundown, have your men come to my chambers. But I am telling you, Arthur, they will have to drag me out of the gates of Camelot and lock them behind me to keep me out. And even then I won’t be gone. I’ll live in the forest, in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, somewhere you’ll never find me, close enough to be here the next time this happens and you need me. I will not abandon you, not without a good enough reason.”

“I don’t want you here!” the king declared in a shout that echoed Merlin's desperation, turning and meeting his eyes without pity or shame. “Is that not reason enough?”

Merlin’s breath caught at the cutting pain of hearing those words outright, and he knew he must have flinched; it hit him like an accusation, making him feel like some kind of predator for forcing his presence like this, all but threatening and certainly intimidating to get his way. He knew he was not an enemy, his actions fueled by love and love alone, but still a blanket of guilt settled on his shoulders like a physical weight.

“No,” he answered at last, bitingly, the hurt turning to anger and insult at being treated so unfairly by him even after all this time, “because whether or not you want me, I still care about you. Even if you exile me, threaten me with anything you want, I will not leave you or Camelot. It is my _destiny_ , Arthur.”

He saw the king’s jaw twitch, could hear the heavy breaths like a threat of wrath, could practically feel the other man refusing to listen, letting Merlin’s half-begging fuel his rage rather than his compassion. Merlin had never wished for Arthur to be anything other than himself, but for the first time he would have given anything for him not to be the son of stupid, stubborn Uther. He would never have thought there could still be anger in him at that tyrannic king after so many years, but suddenly Uther Pendragon was all he could see, poisoning Arthur with his self-righteous pride even now, isolating his gentle son from those who would guide and protect and love him, trying to turn him into the frozen stone sovereign he had been. Fury—at Arthur, at Uther, at their enemies, at everything that had brought them here—roiled in Merlin like a poison all in itself. His next words came out with such a masterful, unrelenting sharpness he almost didn’t even recognize his own voice as it turned to a roar by the end.

“If you expect me to go without a fight back to Arlose,” he practically hissed, “abandoning my destiny, everything I’ve worked for, everything I live for, you will have to come up with a _hell of a better reason than this_!”

“I thought you were dead!"

The words had cut through the air over Merlin’s rage-fueled shout. Afterward, for what felt like a short eternity, there was nothing but silence from them both, as Arthur struggled to find the words to continue and Merlin struggled to comprehend the ones he had heard.

Arthur had turned to face him again, and suddenly the warlock could see signs he’d been overlooking since walking into this room—the shaking of the broad shoulders that had nothing to do with fatigue, the dullness of striking blue eyes that had nothing to do with pain. Suddenly thoughts were jumbling in his head and he was almost afraid of what they might mean.

“When the men carried you into that clearing after Barric had poisoned your magic,” Arthur said at last, staring intently at the floor, his voice shaking with emotions that had nothing to do with Merlin’s behavior, “I thought you were dead. Your skin was cold, and there was so much blood….”

All Merlin’s righteous fury was gone, vanished like a flame blown out, as in the back of his mind he began to piece together the last few months. Just those few words were enough to make him feel overwhelmed as a great realization started to form, and with it dread that he’d been wrong all this time.

“All the way back to Camelot,” Arthur went on, the words seeming to spill out of him now like a dam breaking (though he never moved except for the shaking of his fists at his sides), “you grew colder and paler and…and I thought you might stop breathing at any moment. I held you against me and I was certain I would feel your last breath. You-you held on, just clinging to life when we arrived, and Gilli told me you would not last the night, and I couldn’t…I-I cannot explain the…the pain I felt that night, Merlin, the hopelessness. There have been times when I thought I felt lonely before in my life, but never like this. This time I felt completely alone.”

Merlin swallowed back the empathy that took his breath at seeing his friend like this. He had always known of the immense depth of love Arthur possessed; he’d seen it demonstrated every day since their meeting—toward his people, his courtiers, his friends, Guinevere—but he had never been brave enough to think he ranked so highly in it. Their bond had always been magnificent, forged of something neither of them could ever have predicted or understood, but Merlin’s duty was to care for him and he had never feared death or loss in doing so. He had never asked for anything, never expected anything from Arthur, his only reward being the good he brought into his friend’s life and the lives of his people. Perhaps for the first time the realization hit him like a physical blow.

Arthur loved him in return.

“When you woke the next day,” the king continued, and he was only slightly more in control of his voice as he leaned with one hand against the fireplace, staring down into the dying light, “I thought the worst of it was over. I thought I would never have to see you like that again. But I was wrong—instead I was forced to watch day after day as the illness drained the very life out of you, and no one could say if it would ever stop.”

The man’s eyes shut tightly but not before Merlin could see the glitter of firelight reflecting in an unshed tear.

“You were in _so much_ pain,” his friend said, his voice small and haunted with memory.

Merlin felt his own eyes widen in bare shock at the sound of it; the memories of that illness were so distant to him now, buried as if it never even happened while his magic rushed freely and strongly in his veins as it was meant to. It had been a terrible trial to endure but it was in the past now. He never imagined it could have had such an effect on his friend; in truth, he would have thought Arthur’s warrior-born threshold for pain would have made him less sympathetic toward Merlin’s suffering.

A moment ago he had been so angry because Arthur did not understand him; maybe he was the one who still did not understand after so long.

“Arthur—” his voice came out in a whisper, startled and sorry, but his friend cut him off before he could try to apologize, comfort, _something_.

“I know what the prophecies claim,” he said, pushing off from the mantle to stand straight as he met Merlin’s eyes at last. “I know you have been told since we met that you are meant to be at my side. But you are more than your destiny, Merlin. You are not a slave to it, or to me. Perhaps somewhere along the way you forgot that, but you must remember that you do have a choice. You were right in what you said that day. You have done everything you were created to do, and you do deserve to live in peace.”

Merlin felt is eyes widen in surprise again; he had forgotten that, too, his little tirade two weeks before his magic finally healed itself. He should have known Arthur would not forget—Arthur, who blamed himself for every misfortune to befall anyone he cared for. Of course he would blame himself.

“That’s why you must go,” Arthur’s voice broke slightly on the last word. “If I were being selfish, I would never ask you to leave, Merlin. And perhaps you’re right; perhaps Camelot is not as safe without you here. But I am not my father, and I have come to realize in my life there are some things, some people, more important than even a kingdom.”

Merlin’s breath caught again.

“You are the only one left now,” he continued, and his voice was certainly thicker with emotion and his eyes glimmered without shame. “I want you to return to Arlose, live peacefully with Fenlore and Saren, maybe even find a woman there, marry, and have children of your own. I know you want them as much as I do.”

Unexpected tears burned behind Merlin’s eyes. That was a dream he had released long ago, and he had never regretted his decision to live solely for Arthur. He had never expected his friend to realize all he had sacrificed, but here he had; he had thought of it all, everything Merlin would have had, and he’d done his best to give it to him even though it would cost him. Though Merlin had never expected payment for his actions, he felt suddenly overcome with how lucky he was to have been given this gift of destiny.

“Please, Merlin,” his friend continued softly, “try to understand. The truth is that I would rather you live far away and forget all about Camelot than be forced to watch something like that happen to you again. I couldn’t bear it.”

For a long moment, Merlin did not know what he could possibly say. He could not remember a time when he had misunderstood Arthur’s intentions, and certainly never so badly. Arthur, in turn, had never been so open to confess his feelings like this, least of all those he had for Merlin. Though their friendship had matured greatly in the last couple of years alone, this felt like new ground—almost as new as when he had revealed his magic. In fact, he realized, perhaps that was part of it. There were things he had never said back then, confessions he himself had never made. He had told Arthur all about the prophecies, the myths bearing their names, but he had never told him the most important parts of why. 

And just like that, all in an instant he knew exactly what to say.

“Did I ever tell you about the first time the Great Dragon told me about my destiny?”

Arthur looked as confused as he would have expected. His somewhat casual questioning tone didn’t really seem like a suitable response to such deep and heartfelt emotions, he knew, but he also knew that Arthur needed a calm voice to soothe his uncommonly strong emotions tonight.

“I know I did,” he answered his own question, getting control of his own feelings and focusing on the words to speak, “but did I tell you that it was the worst news I had ever gotten?”

Arthur looked even more confused now, and despite everything, maybe just a tiny bit indignant as well.

“I had dreamt for years about why my magic might’ve been given to me,” he continued, knowing he definitely had his friend’s full attention now. “I was so disappointed when I found out it was for you. Here I had been searching my whole life for the purpose for my gift, and it turned out I was expected to waste it on the spoiled idiot prince of Camelot.”

“Merlin—“ Arthur started to interrupt, because though they both knew Merlin no longer felt that way about him (most of the time), he was obviously too weary for teasing.

“My mind changed quickly,” the warlock continued understandingly, “when I realized it wasn’t your crown that made you worthy, but your character—who you are.”

His friend raised his eyes, and they were still full of doubt and worry and some great sadness, but also focused intently on him.

“Over and over again, you proved yourself to be everything the prophecies said and more. I stood there and watched as you did what you believed to be right no matter what you faced. You protected all the people of this land with everything in you and you were willing to give your life for a servant—for _me_ , even when no one else thought I was worth it. I began to believe in the world you would build, that it would be fair, just, and good, because those are all the things I saw in you, Arthur. That’s when I began to believe the prophecies, not before.”

Merlin could see that his words had indeed calmed his friend; Arthur’s eyes, though still weary, were dry now, and his shoulders were a bit slack as some stress had fallen away. Encouraged, he went on, taking a step closer toward him around the table.

“My feelings have nothing to do with your crown, or some ancient prophecy,” he said with a surety he felt in his very bones. “If there was no prophecy, if you were not a king but just a commoner in some small village somewhere, I would still feel the same. I would still want to protect you. I would still have chosen this life, Arthur, don’t you see that? I didn’t choose it because I had to; I chose it because I _wanted_ to. I love the people of this land; you know I do, but I don’t do this for them. I do it for you, because you’re my friend and I care for you more than anyone, and…”

He hesitated, wondering if he should say it, if Arthur would want to hear it or not. But it seemed this moment, here and now, was a flood of truth neither of them had ever admitted or acknowledged before, and so he bravely finished.

“…and nothing breaks my heart more than being away from you.”

Arthur raised his eyes to meet Merlin’s once again, and instead of looking unnerved or uncomfortable, he just looked moved by the words. With a deep breath, he looked down again and gripped the back of the chair in front of him with both hands, a sign that he was contemplating intensely.

“I mean it, Arthur,” he continued, bolstered as he moved forward until he was standing right beside him. “You are my best friend in the world, and I promised to be at your side for the rest of my life. Sending me to Arlose didn’t give me peace; I just spent every day worried about what might happen to you while I was gone.”

Arthur did not look at him, staring unseeingly down at the table as his fingers tightened on the chair back until they were white. The sorcerer could see by the clench of his jaw that he was torn, debating, struggling to balance his natural instinct to keep his loved ones safe with his natural instinct to keep Merlin at his side always.

“If something like that should happen again…” the king said at last, closing his eyes for a moment against the uncertainty.

“We have no reason to think it will, but if it does, we’ll get through it _together_ , just like before,” Merlin told him evenly.

“I feel I did nothing to help you,” his friend answered, pained.

Merlin thought Arthur had surprised him too many times already tonight, but he blinked dumbly once more as he processed what sounded like a sorrowful confession.

“You did help,” he told him, wondering how he hadn’t realized the depth of guilt Arthur bore, and how needless it was. “If it weren’t for you, I don’t know how I’d have gotten through the sickness. You allowed me to stay busy; you let me rest when I needed it; you talked to me, encouraged me, gave me hope.” Then, as an afterthought, almost to himself, “You’ve always given me hope. Without you, I don’t have any.”

The king swallowed, and Merlin could see he was close to a decision, so he pressed on,

“Arthur,” he said in almost a murmur, “I understand what you were trying to do, really, and you have no idea how much I appreciate it, but if you trust me please try to understand how I feel. I need to be here; this is what’s best for me, and I’m not happy anywhere else. I just want to come home.”

He watched as those words struck his friend in a new wave of emotion that cast over his king’s handsome features, and then he pled, knowing in his heart Arthur would make the right choice in the end,

“Please let me come home.”

Arthur let out a quiet breath and his eyes dropped shut as he released the chair and stood straight again. Then he met Merlin’s eyes, and the warlock could see he had finally released his uncertainties. Though he did not appear convinced himself, he was letting that go and trusting what Merlin said even if he did not fully understand. There was no doubt—this was a new step in their bond they hadn’t reached before. 

The king nodded, once, faintly, and a wave of relief and joy swept over Merlin almost as strongly as the first time Arthur had asked him to do magic in his presence.

“Thank you!” he exclaimed, feeling like a giddy child again. “Oh, Arthur, thank you!”

Unthinkingly, he threw his arms around his friend tightly for a moment before he caught up with himself and pulled back.

“Sorry,” he said with a rueful grin.

But Arthur didn’t appear annoyed with his exuberant affection; instead, he smiled softly, glancing with a little shyness into the dying firelight with only a hint of tension in his eyes.

“On one condition,” he stated authoritatively, and Merlin stood up straight on instinct.

“Yes, anything,” he answered willfully.

“You must promise me, Merlin, that you’ll take care of yourself,” he commanded. “I appreciate your loyalty, but not if it causes you to be injured or worse. I meant it when I said I couldn’t bear it. Promise you’ll look after yourself better.”

Merlin couldn’t have ignored the warmth in his chest if he’d tried; his grin widened, and he could practically feel his eyes dancing with happiness. He had entered these chambers feeling sad and confused and unwanted; how different things had turned out.

“Promise,” he allowed, and just for good measure he added another, “Thank you.”

He turned to go, already making a checklist of things he would need to do first thing tomorrow now that he was back, but Arthur’s voice stopped him at the door.

“Merlin.”

He turned.

“Yes?”

At last, his friend looked completely at peace once again, and for some strange reason the familiarity of seeing him barefoot in his night clothes by the orange firelight made Merlin’s heart flutter again.

“Welcome home,” his king said with the same warmth as Merlin felt.

He flashed him another grin and left to travel the blessedly familiar halls back to his chambers.

Once his warlock was gone in a happy rush, Arthur stood there for another moment and was amazed at the burden that had been lifted off his back. He hadn’t even realized how heavy it had been, but he had the strangest sensation that he could actually breathe again. He was long past wondering at the attachment he had to his friend, though, and so he just took in an easy deep breath and smiled softly to himself as he went to lie down. Somehow he knew he would sleep well tonight for the first time in months.  
\------------------------------------------- It was almost a week after Merlin had left for Camelot that a strange sound filled the silent spring air around the citadel in Arlose. Saren and Fenlore had been walking the hall by a series of grand windows, and the king stopped to peer outside as a low rumble trembled through the walls. His concern faded into a smile when he saw what had caused the sound, and he shot a reassuring look at his curious brother, who leaned around him to see what was there. The white dragon Merlin had called Aithusa stood patiently in the center of the courtyard outside, eyeing the gawking passersby, but this time there was no Merlin in sight.

The king and prince rushed down the castle steps to greet their newcomer. As Fenlore carefully touched the soft white scales of one strong (if somewhat deformed) leg with a look of wonder, Saren accepted the scroll that had been safely rolled up in the other claw.

Fenlore glanced to him expectantly when his brother smiled at the words scrawled on the parchment.

“‘Your highnesses,’” the king read aloud, “‘first I want you to know Aithusa is perfectly safe so don’t be afraid of him. He is there as a favor to me. I wanted thank you for letting me stay at Arlose over the winter. You have proven to be not only great allies to Camelot, but true friends. One day I hope to return the favor.’”

Fenlore smiled fondly as he could clearly hear Merlin’s voice in the words.

“‘Someday soon I’d like to come back and see the ocean with you,’” Saren continued to read, “‘but for now I’ll be remaining here in Camelot. If you don’t mind, please send my things back with Aithusa. Arthur is reading this over my shoulder and wants you to know if you ever need Camelot for any reason, please summon us and we will be there as quickly as we can. Thank you again for everything, and thank you especially, Fenlore, for your comfort and support. All is well now and I expect it will stay that way. Until we meet again, Merlin.’ It’s signed with the royal seal.”

Fenlore could not stop smiling as he unconsciously stroked the warm scales of Aithusa’s leg (and Aithusa begrudgingly allowing it), but even in his joy Saren could see the tiniest hint of wistfulness in his face.

“I know you’ll miss him,” the older man pointed out understandingly.

Fenlore met his eyes with a grateful look, but smiled reassuringly.

“I will,” he acknowledged, “but this is so much better. This is how it’s supposed to be. I’m happy for him—for both of them.”

“Me too,” Saren nodded in agreement.

After another moment, the king patted his younger brother’s arm.

“Come,” he said, “we need to get his things together. And I’m fairly sure that dragon is going to knock you over if you don’t stop touching him.”

Aithusa made a grunting sound which could have been interpreted many different ways, and Fenlore stepped back with both hands up just in case he’d inadvertently offended.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, and allowed his brother to pull him toward the castle.

Though Fenlore had only known Merlin and Arthur for a short time, he’d had a sense of uneasiness since visiting that all was not right with the world because of the rift that had been between them. Now, at last, that sense was gone and the very atmosphere of magic in the air felt right once more. Secretly, he hoped he might someday see for himself what the two of them were meant to be. With that pleasant thought, the young prince followed his brother inside to find gifts to add in with Merlin’s bags.

 

**_The End_ **

\-------------------------------------------

(1) Translation: _“Oh, dragon, come to earth! I utter your presence!”_ from https://merlin.fandom.com/wiki/Spells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the story! The next one, to be posted soon, is actually my favorite so far in this series, so please stick around and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!


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